


Anywhere You Let It Go

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-04
Updated: 2007-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay, this is what I've figured out so far. I'm stuck in some sort of hell that looks vaguely like a Sandra Bullock movie."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anywhere You Let It Go

**Author's Note:**

> This would not be possible without the awesome beta abilities of callsigns, I'm so serious, because this thing was kicking my ass, and she totally saved me.  
> So. There's a baby. There are references to all sorts of hoofed animals, including ponies. There's Jon being awesome. And! There's also a bonus My Chemical Romance Alternate Ending for civilbloodshed!  
> Title is taken from Something To Look Forward To by Spoon. Enjoy, and feedback would be loverly.
> 
> [download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/1871.html)

**[Part I]**

Brendon's hiding. He probably shouldn't be hiding, but he's got Charlie with him, and they've got cartons of milk they stole from the basement kitchen and three sleeves of Chips Ahoy cookies between them, and the balcony is dark. He can see the altar perfectly through the railings from their spot on the floor, the pre-wedding bustle, Adrian still in her jeans and t-shirt, shouting exasperated orders at the florists.

Brendon knows that Adrian knows where they are. He can tell by the way she keeps glaring up at the balcony and clenching her fists, but he figures she'll send one of her minions for them when they're really needed.

"So you know your mom is scary, right?" Brendon says, and Charlie just looks at him with these huge green eyes.

Brendon sighs. He eats another cookie. He's kind of hoping that if he eats enough, he won't be able to fit into his suit.

Still, it doesn't quite hit him, doesn't quite register that _today is the day_, until Patrick shifts into view at the top of the back steps.

Charlie's face lights up and he says, "Da," and fumbles to his feet and toddles over with his arms outstretched expectantly, fingers grabby, and watching Patrick cuddle Charlie to his chest makes Brendon suddenly wish he was a baby himself, and that the biggest, scariest thing he had to do that day was handle an unexpected lack of Cheerios.

He crumbles a cookie in his palm as his hand fists over it, mouth dry.

"Hey there," Patrick says, smiling. He tips his hat back as Charlie reaches for the brim and laughs. "Ready?"

Brendon swallows hard and nods.

**

The day Charles Peter Stump was born was the day Pete forgave Patrick for getting married.

After the ceremony, after no amount of screaming or sullen silences could get Patrick to change his mind, Pete hadn't said one word to Patrick for six months. It'd made touring kind of hard, but Patrick could be just as stubborn, if not more so than Pete, and he wasn't going to let their personal issues fuck up the band.

He hadn't exactly been in love with Adrian, but he'd liked her enough to want to make it work, and he'd _always_ wanted kids. He figured Pete was just going to have to deal with it, with _them_, and he didn't know what the fuck his problem was, anyway. Marriage hadn't changed Joe.

But anyway, the day Charles Peter – because Pete was still his best friend, no matter how much of an asshole he was being – Stump came into the world, Pete showed up at the hospital with a big stuffed Hemmy and pressed his face into Patrick's neck and left his skin a little damp with tears.

*

Pete wasn't smug when Patrick's marriage started going downhill. His mouth would get tight when Patrick argued with Adrian over the phone, even when he tried to keep his voice soft. He'd eye Patrick warily and curl up next to him on the couch and ask how Charlie was and he wouldn't be smug at all.

When Patrick was home he spent as much time with Charlie as possible, and Adrian and Patrick would sleep back to back, and Patrick wondered when they'd stopped talking about anything other than the baby.

Their relationship hadn't been ideal to begin with, yeah, and add Charlie and another tour into that mix and things between Adrian and Patrick were sort of strained towards breaking, but he hadn't thought it was _over_ until she got quiet, until she pressed a palm to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut and sort of laughed, like it wasn't funny at all, and said, "Christ, Patrick, can't you. You're in love with _Pete_. You've always been in love with Pete fucking Wentz, and I'm." She pinned him with bright eyes. "I'm only in the way."

Patrick opened and closed his mouth. He shifted on his feet and flapped a hand and finally said, "I'm not—"

"You _are_," she said with disturbing conviction. "You're so in love with him it's pathetic, Patrick, and I'm tired…" She drifted off, shook her head. "I'm just tired, okay?"

Patrick dropped down into a kitchen chair. He cradled his head in his hands and his eyes burned and he couldn't _deal with all that_ now, he couldn't. He said flatly, "You're leaving me."

"I'm not leaving you," she countered softly, and Patrick looked up, hopeful and a little bewildered, heart knocking loudly in his chest.

Adrian sighed. She sat down across from him and took one of his hands and said, "I'm not going to hate you for this," which totally wasn't reassuring at all.

"Okay," he said. He pressed his lips together and nodded.

"I'm leaving this marriage," she said, squeezing his hand, "but I'm not leaving _you_."

To Patrick, it kind of sounded like the same thing.

*

Patrick wasn't sure if Brendon had the worst possible timing ever or the best. He bounced into town just as Adrian was packing up the last of her things, and Patrick was at the park down the street with Charlie when Brendon found him.

"You, Patrick," Brendon said, sitting down next to him on the metal bench, a huge Starbucks cup in his hands, "are possibly the best thing Chicago has to offer. I'm being honest here. Coffee?"

Patrick said, "No," then leaned down into the opening of the stroller to make faces at Charlie.

Brendon leaned down and made some faces of his own. When Charlie just stared at them, Brendon scratched the back of his head and said, "Huh."

"Don't insult my kid, Urie," Patrick said, and Brendon said, "No, no. I mean, he's totally just practicing his 'don't encourage Uncle Pete' expression. You crack a smile, you risk tasteless jokes for the rest of your life."

Patrick snorted. "Yeah, you're one to talk."

"Oh, but I'm actually _funny_, my dear Patrick," Brendon said, grinning. He bumped his shoulder. "Got room for me in that shack of yours?"

Patrick slanted him a look. "You hiding from anyone in particular?"

Brendon shrugged, picking at the cardboard sleeve on his cup. "Pete mentioned something and, you know," he said vaguely, shrugging again, catching Patrick's eyes, "I figured we could be miserable together for a little while." He tried for another grin, but it didn't quite make it past the corners of his mouth.

"The band?"

Brendon said, "I've got a couple weeks."

*

In a way, it helped Patrick cope. He didn't have to focus on his own problems if he could just focus on Brendon, on how Brendon wouldn't talk about anything that meant anything for the first few days after he moved into one of the guest bedrooms. On how Brendon sometimes stumbled down to breakfast with bruised, red-rimmed eyes, and sometimes Patrick woke up in the middle of the night to find Brendon curled into him above the covers, body tinier than Patrick ever remembered him being.

A couple weeks turned into a month, and then almost two, and finally Patrick sat Brendon down and asked, "Okay, want to tell me what's going on? Did." He swallowed. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

"No, um." Brendon ducked his head. "We've got some new stuff to practice, and I. I just needed—"

"They know where you _are_, right?" Patrick cut in, and Brendon rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, dude, of course. I'm here, right? Who _doesn't_ know?"

Patrick gazed at him skeptically. He hadn't exactly been having a ton of visitors the past couple months, and Adrian wasn't the type to gossip. The guys were all in LA – he hadn't actually been avoiding Pete, but he hadn't really been talking to him, either; only maybe he'd been _talking_ to him, but he just wasn't saying anything that really mattered - and Chicago was the sort of scene where everything and nothing was news, so it was entirely possible that no one knew Brendon Urie of Panic! was currently living in his house.

"_Pete_ told me to come," Brendon said, and okay, yeah, he had a point, and if Pete knew, then at least Ryan probably knew, too.

"All right, fine." Patrick nodded.

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a few minutes. Brendon squinted one eye shut and then the other, back and forth, until Patrick prompted, "And?"

"And what?"

Patrick leaned forward on his elbows, tipping his hat back. "And what's _wrong_, Brendon?"

Brendon blew out a heavy breath and sunk down lower in his chair. "Nothing," he muttered petulantly.

"Right, nothing," Patrick scoffed. "That's why you either cry yourself to sleep at night or don't sleep at all. Of course it's nothing. Look, you're my _friend_, Brendon, and I sort of love you in the way that I don't find you as annoying as apparently most other people in the world do, but my life is currently more fucked up than I'd like it to be, and you're just—"

"Spencer and I broke up," Brendon interrupted.

Patrick blinked at him. "Oh. Did I know you were dating?"

"Maybe." Brendon shrugged. "Probably not. That was kind of the problem."

*

"Do we think Chuck here's a little young for the zoo?"

"You call him Chuck again and you die," Patrick said amiably, pushing Charlie's stroller past the giraffes as fast as he could. Giraffes sort of freaked him out. He didn't, however, want Brendon to know that.

Brendon was practically skipping along next to him, a stuffed polar bear cradled in one arm, sipping at a cherry slushie. "No, seriously, I was reading up on it and all and I don't think he can even register, like, shapes yet."

"He's eight months old, Brendon. I'm pretty sure he can see shapes."

"Wait, wow, he's that—he's eight months old?" Brendon paused, leaned against the railing, and Patrick slowed down his stride but didn't stop. The giraffes were _right there_, with their freakishly long necks and fuzzy horns and blue tongues.

"Yes," Patrick said, silently willing Brendon to get the hell out of the way before one of the giraffes tried to eat him.

"Okay." Brendon shook his head. "Okay, you're _blowing my mind_, Patrick."

"Brendon—"

"No, no, eight months." He tapped the front of his teeth with his straw. The giraffes loomed ever closer. "That's, like, almost a year. He's gonna start walking any day now, man. Do you realize the amount of baby-proofing we have to get cracking on?"

"It's been Pete-proofed for years," Patrick pointed out dryly. He reached over and grabbed Brendon's arm, dragging him forward and then pushing on the small of his back to get him moving again.

"So you're saying we're actually ahead of the game," Brendon said thoughtfully.

"Aren't you _leaving_ soon?" Patrick asked. He never signed up for a lifetime of Urie. Pete, yes, but Brendon, no way.

"I'm hurt, Patrick." Brendon pouted. "Hurt and saddened by your callous words."

"Yeah, right." Patrick rolled his eyes.

"Oh look, _zebras_, okay." Brendon shoved the stuffed polar bear at Patrick and then hefted Charlie out of the stroller, drifting off towards the railing. "Okay, little man, these are zebras, and they're your Uncle Brendon's favorite besides unicorns and they're _awesome_ so pay attention here."

Patrick chuckled. Charlie was gazing up at Brendon with unblinking green eyes as Brendon read the Zebra Facts plaque to him, mouth a little open, tiny hands fisted in the stretched collar of Brendon's t-shirt. His short, pale hair was sticking straight up in the back and his cheeks were pink and Patrick was just unbelievably in love with the kid. It hit him hard, made him almost breathless, every single time he looked at him.

His Sidekick buzzed and he thumbed it on without looking away from Charlie - because he was totally besotted to the point of idiocy, really, but he was pretty sure he was allowed to be - and said, "Yeah?"

"So you're not at home," Pete said.

"Um. No."

"Do you want to know how I know you're not at home?"

Patrick sighed. "I think I can guess, Pete. We're at the zoo."

"I thought you didn't go to zoos." He could hear Pete's pout.

"Charlie likes the zoo." He toed on the stroller break, dropped the polar bear into the seat, and shoved one hand into his jeans pocket. "Brendon appears to be fearless in the face of giraffes, too, so I thought, hey, I could either be cooped up with a baby and a five-year-old all day, or I could take them on a very special outing. What are you doing here, Pete?"

Pete was quiet for a moment. Then said tentatively, "Okay, not really the greeting I was hoping for from my best friend, but—"

"Sorry," Patrick murmured. He rubbed his forehead. None of this was really Pete's fault. Whether Adrian's words were true or not—it had nothing to do with _Pete_, and Patrick knew he was acting like an asshole. "Sorry," he said again, louder. "I'm glad you're here."

"You sound it."

"I _am_." He really was. "Jesus, Pete, I haven't seen you since Urie and his bag of misery showed up on my doorstep. Thanks for that, by the way."

"I am choosing to ignore your sarcasm, Trick. When are you getting back?" he asked. He had his we-have-to-talk voice on. Great.

Patrick shrugged. "Few hours." He had the feeling it would take a while to circuit the whole zoo with Brendon in tow. He was hoping they could slide by the ostriches without stopping, though, because ostriches always had pure evil in their eyes. They were totally in league with the giraffes. And the llamas in the petting zoo and, oh man, he wasn't going _anywhere near_ the petting zoo, even though Brendon would probably never let him live that down.

"Africa, Patrick," Brendon called out, waving him on towards the African forest exhibit, and Patrick said, "Gotta go, Pete. Africa."

"Right, sure, I'll see when you when I see you."

*

Pete stole Charlie as soon as they got through the front door. He unclipped him from his car seat and lifted him up and disappeared into the nursery, leaving Patrick to struggle with the diaper bags and seat, Brendon with his arms full of toys from the zoo gift shop, and Patrick yelled after him, "Gee, thanks for your help, Pete."

"You're welcome," he shouted back, and then they didn't see him again until dinner rang the doorbell about an hour later.

*

"So." Pete curled up on the couch next to Patrick and tipped his head onto his shoulder. "I thought maybe you would've whipped Brendon into shape by now."

Adrian had picked up Charlie a couple hours before – and hadn't that been fun, with Pete alternately glowering at her and cooing at Charlie, and Brendon making sure he had all fifty thousand stuffed animals he'd bought him – and then Brendon had slipped away to his room to sulk or something and Patrick had turned on the Colbert Report in an effort to stave off whatever Pete was there to tell him.

Worst case scenario, Patrick figured he was there to announce his impending marriage to Ashlee Simpson, or that he'd knocked up some girl and, really, Patrick had nothing for that. Seriously.

Best case, he was there to talk about Brendon.

"Brendon's okay," Patrick said finally. He manfully ignored the way Pete was fiddling with the ends of his fingers, and forced himself to relax back into the cushions.

Pete nodded, cheek brushing his shirt. "Yeah, but the guys."

Patrick pulled away a little, turned to look over at him. "What?"

"The guys." Pete shrugged. He had his hood up and tucked low on his forehead, his sleeves tugged almost to the ends of his palms. "Have you seen this month's _Rolling Stone_ yet?"

"No," Patrick said, studying Pete's face carefully.

"I'm flying out to New York tomorrow morning," Pete said. "You should talk to Brendon."

*

"What's this?" Patrick asked. He wagged the folded _Rolling Stone_ in front of Brendon's face, thumb pressing above the blurb about Panic! At the Disco.

Brendon leaned forward, brow wrinkled. "New Green Day only got two stars? Not cool."

"Brendon."

Brendon looked up at him through his eyelashes. "Yes, Patrick darling?"

"Cut it out, Urie," Patrick said harshly. "You said—"

"I know what I said." Brendon straightened up and grabbed the magazine out of Patrick's hand. He tossed it onto the coffee table. "It's just a hiatus. We're fine."

"You're fucking _hiding out_ here, Brendon. If you're gonna be a pussy about this, you can do it somewhere else."

Brendon's eyes widened in surprise. "Patrick—"

"You can't." Patrick pressed two fingers into his eye socket and took a deep breath. He was pretty fucking angry and he wasn't sure where it was all coming from. Finally, he just said, "You can't let this affect the band. At all."

"But I just—"

"At all, Brendon." Patrick opened his eyes and caught his, dark and hurt. It was important that Brendon _get this_, because right then he—_they_ could recover, but stretch that awkwardness into many more months, years even and everything was up in the air. "Or it's over. There's no going back if you don't keep going forward."

Brendon blinked at him, irises suspiciously shiny. He nodded and slowly got to his feet. "I'll be gone by tomorrow," he muttered. He bent his head and rubbed a hand over his face. He _sniffled_, even, and God.

God, Brendon was breaking his fucking _heart_, and that'd happened way too many times the past year. "Brendon," he said, voice soft. He gripped Brendon's arm loosely, sliding his hand down to shackle his wrist. "Brendon, man, I love you, and it's gonna be fine, okay?"

Brendon took a shaky breath, tried to smile. "Yeah."

"And if it isn't—if you try and it _isn't_," he squeezed his hand, "I'll kick your ass if you don't come back here."

Brendon snorted, snuffled a little wetly. "Okay."

*

Patrick and Charlie drove him to the airport the next afternoon, because even though it was one of Adrian's days, Brendon would've been miserable if he hadn't been able to say goodbye to the kid.

"I owe you one," Patrick said when he hefted Charlie through Adrian's back door. He sat the car seat on the kitchen table and sank down into a wooden chair.

Adrian smiled. "You owe me a lot," she countered. There was a wealth of meaning in her words, but they weren't bitter.

Patrick said, "Yeah," and his expression said, 'Yeah, I know, I was a crappy husband,' and by Adrian's answering brow-arch, she totally got that and agreed.

Adrian had been awesome from the moment Patrick had met her, the friend of a friend of Pete's, when they'd both ended up eating huge bowls of ice cream in Pete's pantry during some party that Patrick couldn't even really remember. He just remembered Adrian, who laughed as openly as Pete, but without any of his dark undercurrents.

"It's possible that I'm going crazy," Patrick told her.

Adrian rolled her eyes. "You're not going crazy. Is Pete still around?"

Patrick shook his head. "Left yesterday," he said.

"And, let me guess, you didn't tell him."

"There's nothing to tell," Patrick insisted.

"There _is_." She got to her feet and started in on Charlie's buckles, slipping him out of his car seat and cradling him over her shoulder. He babbled and grabbed hold of the frizzy ends of her hair. "You know, if I'm going to suffer through all this melodrama and the pissy looks from Pete, the least you could do is make an effort."

Patrick pressed his lips together and scowled at her.

She lifted a hand off Charlie's back, waved it a little. "No, seriously, I need some entertainment here. I'm a stay-at-home mom with an abnormally stoic baby, and okay, I totally blame you for that, by the way, and half the day I'm _bored out of my mind_, so you've got to just come out already."

Patrick blinked. "Excuse me?"

"At the _very least_," Adrian went on, "you should tell Pete how you feel."

"I don't _feel_—"

"Preferably somewhere where I can watch."

"Adrian."

"Patrick." She stared at him, not blinking, and, okay, he'd take credit for Charlie's stoicism, but Adrian was totally responsible for that eerie staring thing he always did.

"I'm not in love with Pete," Patrick bit out finally.

"Oh." She shook her head. "Oh, that's just sad."

"Please—"

"_Sad_," she emphasized, a mock-frown pulling at her lips, and really, had he just thought she was awesome? Because she so wasn't.

"I'm leaving," he said, standing up.

He moved behind Adrian and cupped the back of Charlie's head and pressed a kiss onto his forehead. "Be good, baby," he said, and on his way back around he gave Adrian a peck at the corner of her mouth. "You be good, too."

*

"I'm coming out."

"Diana Ross," Patrick said without diverting his attention from his laptop.

"No, I mean. I'm coming out. I've got a strategy and everything."

Patrick lifted his hand off the mouse and stared at his Sidekick. "You do?"

"Lists. I've got lists, too. You should come out with me."

"Are we." Patrick cocked his head, even though Brendon couldn't see it. "Are we talking about _coming out_ coming out."

"We're talking about gay icon coming out, Patrick," Brendon said grandly. "We're talking _huge_."

"I'm hanging up on you now."

"No, wait, wait, I'm serious here. _Listen_ to me, Patrick. This is my serious voice."

Patrick waited. "Okay."

"I'm. I think this'll be good," Brendon said.

"Okay," Patrick said again. "Want to tell me why?"

"Because."

There was a lengthy pause, and then Patrick said, "Because isn't a good enough reason here," because it wasn't. If it was going to rock the world, mess up careers, then because wasn't nearly enough of a reason to do it.

"I know," Brendon said, deflating, voice small and tired.

Patrick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He really wondered when he'd become Brendon's love guru, therapist, whatever. "What do the guys think?" he asked.

"I didn't tell them yet."

"Brendon—"

"Can't this just be something, something I—"

"Brendon, this isn't for Spencer, is it?" Patrick asked.

"_No_," he said firmly, and laughed, but it sounded kind of broken to Patrick's ears. "No, this has nothing to do with Spencer," Brendon repeated, and Patrick highly doubted that, but he wasn't going to argue with him about it over the phone.

"Okay, just. Don't do anything 'til I get there." Christ. He couldn't believe his _life_.

*

Pete seemed suspiciously cheery when he answered his cell. "Hey, champ."

"Pete." Patrick had his Sidekick tucked between his shoulder and ear, stuffing t-shirts and socks and mostly-clean underwear into a duffle.

"Oh, that doesn't sound good," Pete said. "What's up?"

"Brendon wants to come out."

"Like _out_ out?"

Patrick said, "Yeah," and, "Preferably in a big way," and smelled his Prince t-shirt – not too bad – before tossing it into his bag.

There was a long moment of weirdly tense silence. Then Pete said, "Okay, cool."

"That's—seriously?"

"If he's going do it, he might as well do it big, right?"

"No. I mean, yes, sure, but _really_?" Patrick dropped the pair of jeans he'd been staring at, trying to remember if they still fit him, and glanced at himself in the mirror over his dresser. His face looked strange, and then he realized he didn't have a hat on.

"More power to him, I guess. Look, Trick, was that all? 'Cause I've got—"

"Yeah, um." There was something _odd_ going on. "That's all."

"Good. When he's decided for sure just let me know and we'll, like, spin it with PR or something."

"Right," Patrick said flatly. Forget odd, there was something distinctly _fishy_ about the whole thing. "Pete, are you—"

"Hey, look, I gotta jet, but I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay," Patrick echoed, but he was already talking to dead air.

*

Pete didn't call back, but he texted, _u going to nv?_ just as Patrick was boarding his plane. Patrick wrote back, _Brendon_, and turned off his Sidekick for the rest of the flight.

*

Patrick had a soft spot for Brendon. He'd always had this weird affection for him that may or may not have had anything to do with the first time they'd met, Brendon's dorkish enthusiasm spilling out in really dumb jokes and huge-ass grins, and Patrick had thought there was something so genuine and open about him, even when he was purposefully being an asshole.

Everyone except Brendon seemed to know this about him. Brendon was kind of oblivious sometimes.

Brendon didn't seem surprised, though, when he opened the door - to that stupid cabin they always lived in whenever they were writing or rehearsing that was, like, really fucking hard to find and the cabbies never knew where the hell it was, despite being _cabbies_ \- to find Patrick there just hours after they'd talked that morning, strapped down with bags, sweating profusely, hair sticking to his nape and cheeks. He seemed happy, and a little strung out, like something had been continuously rubbing him raw under his clothes, but he didn't say anything about the fact that Patrick had apparently dropped everything for him, for his _crisis_.

"Hey," he said, bouncing into a hug. "_Patrick_. Where's Charlie?"

"Not here. Unless this takes more than two days."

"It totally won't take more than two days," Brendon said. He bit his bottom lip and his smile wavered a little and Patrick sighed. It was definitely going to take more than two days. Damn it.

"Bren—"

"Come on, come on," Brendon pulled him inside and shoved his bags off his shoulders, "Jon's in the den. Ryan's locked himself in the bathroom with Spencer, so—"

"Have you told them?" Patrick asked.

"Um, yes?"

"Which means no." He was way familiar with Brendon-speak.

"No, no, I seriously told them." He nodded earnestly. "You know, Ryan's in the bathroom crying or something. Spencer might be trying to talk him out of killing me."

"So." Patrick took a deep breath. He needed some ibuprofen. Or vodka. Vodka would help. He didn't normally drink, but he had a feeling he'd be much happier after a couple of fortifying fingers of hard liquor. "You're really doing this."

Brendon tangled his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt, antsy. "I am. I want to."

"Okay, well. Pete said to go for it, so let me see what you've got."

*

Patrick was pretty sure Brendon's lists had secretly been written by a twelve-year-old girl. "Jensen Ackles?"

Brendon bounced on the end of his bed, grinning stupidly. "My TV boyfriend."

"Right." Patrick nodded. Right, of course. TV boyfriend. Fuck. "Brendon."

"Yeah?" He cocked his head at Patrick like a fuzzy puppy or something. All big eyes and eager to please smile.

"You realize," Patrick said with infinite patience, seriously, "that this Jensen guy'll probably punch you if you try to kiss him in public, or, you know, anywhere, really. I mean, that's a bad plan, you see this, right?" He waved the notebook – ten pages of _lists_, Jesus – in Brendon's face.

Brendon frowned. "I don't know. He seems pretty nice."

"Not the point," Patrick said, and he had a feeling that Brendon wasn't taking all this as seriously as he should. "You can't. This isn't the way to do this."

"I beg to differ." Brendon snatched the notebook out of his hands, flipping through the pages absently. "And how would you know, anyhow? It's not too late, Stump. We could step out in style. Be seen with our hands down each other's pants or something. Tabloids eat that shit up."

"I could come out with you," Jon offered from his sprawl on the floor. He was on his back, hands on his stomach, blinking up at the ceiling.

"Cassie would probably be pissed," Brendon pointed out. "Also, you're not actually gay."

"True." Jon looked thoughtful, mouth pulled down in slight frown. "It'd be easier with a buddy, though." He tilted his head and arched his brows at Patrick.

"Look, _look_," Patrick said, exasperated, "I'm not gay, okay? I'm not gay, I'm not in love with _Pete_—"

"You're—" Jon struggled upright, leaning back on one hand. "You're in love with Pete?"

"Huh," Brendon said. He scratched his chin, staring into the middle distance. "Okay, yeah, I can see it."

"I'm _not_," Patrick stressed, tugging his hat down lower and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Repression is bad for the soul, man," Brendon said, snickering.

Patrick felt his face get red, hot. He wasn't there to talk about Pete. This was about Brendon, and Brendon's _plan_, and Patrick was so ready to open his mouth and toss out something waspishly insulting, but then Ryan called up the stairs, "Dinner, assholes," and Brendon's tender feelings were spared.

Patrick glared at him on their way out the door, though, just to make sure he realized how close he'd come to being taken down.

*

"Can't you just do a nice, tasteful interview with the _Advocate_ or something?"

Brendon wrinkled his nose. "Little sedate, don't you think?"

Patrick didn't think that at all. Patrick thought an exclusive interview was the best way to avoid a media circus, shock and public backlash, but he supposed to _Brendon_, yeah, it was a little sedate.

Patrick bit the end of his mechanical pencil. Jon had passed him a Polaroid earlier of Brendon in a tiny purple hoodie, hanging all over Ryan, his eyes caught mid puppy-dog and his nose sort of endearingly pushed against Ryan's jaw. He'd written, "do u think it'll rly be a surprise to any1?" in blue pen along the bottom. He possibly had a point, but Patrick didn't think it'd make much of difference in the long run.

"Hi." Ryan suddenly loomed over them from behind the couch and Patrick jumped, startled. Ryan looked kind of scary and pissed off. "Hi, I'm Ryan Ross and I'm in a little band called Panic! At the Disco. Maybe you've heard of it?"

Brendon widened his eyes up at him. "Um."

"But see," Ryan went on, cracking his knuckles, and that shouldn't really have been menacing coming from a boy roughly the width of a twig, but it really, honestly was, "we're having a problem with our slightly deranged lead singer, and if he doesn't get his fucking act together and, you know, maybe fucking rehearse with us once in a while instead of planning his rockin' coming out party—"

Brendon thrust a fist in the air and Patrick, to his utter bemusement, automatically echoed it.

"—we just might replace him with an animatronic Abe Lincoln so, you know, if you see him. Let him know I'd like to punch his face in, okay?"

"Um," Brendon said again.

Ryan glared at him. "Five minutes, Urie," he said, and then disappeared.

"He's taking all this really well," Patrick said.

Brendon bobbed his head. "Better than expected."

*

Spencer, Patrick decided, was an interesting guy to watch.

"Spencer's an interesting guy," Patrick told Pete.

"Okay."

"Yeah." Patrick was on the couch, staring at Spencer through the sliding glass door. Spencer was staring at Brendon. Brendon was staring at his feet, hands in his pockets and, okay, none of that sounded all that interesting, except after three days of being cooped up in the stupid cabin, Patrick was starting to make his own fun.

For instance, he was pretty sure Spencer was undressing Brendon with his eyes, and that Brendon was thinking about ice cream. Or maybe Patrick was thinking about ice cream. Either way, ice cream was involved, and Ryan was some sort of ice cream Nazi who wouldn't let anything that tasted remotely bad for you through the front door.

"You know how," Patrick said slowly, "when you start to lose your mind, Ryan Ross is always the devil?"

"Dude." Pete laughed. "Trick, seriously, how long are you gonna stay there?"

"Until Brendon decides how many ponies he wants in his parade."

"Parade?"

"Who the fuck knows, Pete." He scrubbed a hand through his hair and resettled his cap. "I think he's just doing this to piss Spencer off, honestly. Look, are you, like, totally busy right now? Could you fly in with Charlie for a day?"

"I could, but I'm on my way back to LA," Pete said, and it wasn't really the way he said it, but the way he said it _at all_ that tripped Patrick up.

He made a face at his Sidekick. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, so." There was a shrug in his voice. A forced, nonchalant, really suspect shrug.

The shorthairs on the back of Patrick's neck prickled. "Right," he said, hand tightening around the phone, and it was like the crack they'd silently and stealthily repaired between them after Charlie had been born was starting to shake apart underneath the plaster, and fuck. Damn it, maybe he was a little in love with him. He couldn't think why else it felt like Pete was squeezing his heart.

*

Patrick didn't know the whole story, so he had no business being angry at Spencer. Logically, he totally knew that. He couldn't stop his hands from clenching into fists, though, when Spencer sat down next to him on the lounge chair and glanced over at him from underneath his fringe, smoothing a thumb down the middle of his thigh in what Patrick thought might've been a slightly nervous gesture.

Spencer hardly ever looked nervous, whether he was or not, so it was hard to tell for sure.

"Hey, Spencer," Patrick said. "What's up?"

Spencer shook his head, turned to gaze off across the yard. He chewed his bottom lip and looked completely uncomfortable and Patrick had no idea how to deal with this Spencer. To him, Spencer was the boy at the drums with the gorgeous smile who could lay out a joke so dry it wasn't funny until Ryan laughed. Spencer was calm, cool, collected, and he had this practiced little blush, a soft-pink glow that defused over his cheeks and made him seem shy if you weren't looking directly into his eyes.

Patrick always felt there was something distinctly _mean_ about Spencer, but he knew how incredibly unfair that assessment was, given that he'd never spent all that much time around him.

There were pages of Brendon's ridiculous lists next to Patrick's legs, and Spencer picked one up, smiling with half his mouth. He played at the edges of it with his fingers and then glanced back up at Patrick, head cocked, and asked, "Has he thought about his family at all?" and Patrick thought, _well, shit_.

*

"Brendon," Patrick said, sitting down next to him on the bed.

Brendon was sprawled out on his stomach, coloring. "Hold on," he said, and then, "Unicorns are white, right? So what's the point of having a whole freaking coloring page full of baby unicorns if you can't color them?"

"Brendon." Patrick rubbed a finger along the side of his nose. Patrick was there to _help_, and Brendon was _coloring baby unicorns_. Christ on a stick. "Please."

Brendon glanced up at him. His glasses slipped down to the end of his nose. "What?"

"Seriously, have you." Patrick took a deep breath. "Have you told your parents you're even _gay_? Because you can't come out if you haven't."

"What?" Brendon asked again, rolling onto his side and jabbing a blue crayon at him. "How is that—are there _rules_? How did you even _come up_ with that?"

Patrick just stared at him.

"Oh, well." Brendon rolled his eyes. "Sure, I mean, there's gonna be some—"

"Brendon." Oh god, Patrick really couldn't do it. He felt like a _dad_ or something and, okay, he actually was a dad, true, but he definitely wasn't qualified to shepherd Brendon Urie.

"Hey, Patrick, it'll be fine." Brendon grinned at him, a little desperate at the corners. "Seriously. No lie."

"Brendon," Patrick said sternly, because someone had to say it, "you should tell your parents first."

"My parents," Brendon said. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and ducked his head. "My parents probably aren't going to take it so well."

"Yeah, maybe." Patrick nodded. "That's kind of why."

*

Patrick got two pieces of contradicting and confusing information from Ryan on his fifth day at the cabin.

Ryan sat down across from him at the kitchen table with a bowlful of Grape Nuts and said, "They weren't actually, you know, dating. Just fucking around."

Patrick arched his eyebrows extremely high at that unsolicited comment. "Okay."

Ryan nodded and went back to eating his cereal, job, apparently, done.

Patrick suddenly and very desperately wanted a pudding. One of those Hunts Snack Packs with layered chocolate and vanilla.

Then later that same afternoon, Ryan stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned into Patrick's shoulder and told him, "Brendon was the one who broke it off. Sort of." He frowned, like he couldn't find the exact words.

"Right." Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. He thought maybe they'd hid all the sugar and sugar-based products from Brendon, but that was no reason to withhold them from Patrick, too.

And then later that _very same night_, Patrick watched as Brendon almost walked into a wall while staring at Spencer and trying really hard not to look like he was actually staring at Spencer, who was sitting quietly in the living room reading, and Patrick realized he was trapped in the middle of a gay romantic comedy.

  
**[Part II]**

Joe doesn't see what the big deal is. He's sitting on the bathroom counter, watching Pete make faces at himself in the mirror. Andy's on the closed toilet seat, legs crossed. Andy disagrees with marriage as an institution, but he says he's there for moral support.

Or the food. Joe's definitely there for the food. He checked off prime rib on the response card, but he's now rethinking his choice.

"Sea bass en croute," he says, palming his jaw. "En croute." He's clean-shaven, and his skin feels weird under his rough fingers.

"You can have mine, dude," Pete says.

Pete probably won't be eating at all. Pete's probably going to disappear into the crowd, let them swallow him up whole. Joe's already got his booth picked out in his mind, the one in the back with the extra plushy cushions and the half-wall. He's going to soak up the quiet, or at least the muffled melee. He might be hiding from Ryan, too, but only because that dude's a scary-intense fucker when he's on a mission.

None of this is Joe's fault, so he doesn't think he deserves to be harassed by little Ryan Ross.

There's a sharp knock on the door and Adrian calls out, "None of you assholes better be squirming through that window," and Joe glances up at the small square of light and smacks his forehead, because _duh_. They could've been out of there, like, an hour ago.

"Showtime," Pete says. He adjusts his ascot and snarls.

**

The day Charles Peter Stump was born was the day Pete forgave Patrick for getting married to someone that wasn't him.

That was pretty fucking big of him, actually.

Patrick, his sweet dumpling _Patrick_, knocked up a friend of a friend, a _girl_, and then had the audacity to _marry her_, and Pete was so angry about it he hadn't been sure he'd be able to speak in full sentences ever again.

But then Joe had called him from the hospital – _Joe_ – babbling about tiny feet and hands and the way Charles Peter Stump was a wrinkled red mess of adorableness with this tuft of strawberry blonde hair, and Pete just. He stopped thinking. He got in his car and drove and told himself that no matter what, no matter what happened or would happen, Patrick was _his_ Patrick, and now there was a little Stump to spoil.

He still hated Adrian with the fiery glory of a thousand suns, though. He was pretty sure that wasn't going to change.

*

When Patrick's marriage started going downhill, Pete totally didn't gloat. Gloating was what a bad friend would do, so mostly he just hated Adrian even more, even fiercer, until Patrick called him up and said, "She's gone."

"Hall &amp; Oates."

"No, um. Adrian. She left me." His voice was thick and lower than usual and Pete kind of felt like he'd been sucker punched, even though a part of him, a _huge_ part, was really fucking glad.

Pete cleared his throat. "Patrick, man, I'm—"

"Don't you dare say you're fucking sorry," he growled, and then he hung up on him.

He called back five minutes later and apologized, and Pete graciously forgave him. "What about Charlie?" he asked.

"She's. Joint custody, I guess." Patrick sighed noisily, and Pete said, "Okay. Okay, so, I'm flying in."

"No," Patrick said. Sort of emphatically. He could even picture him shaking his head.

Pete's eyes widened. "Um. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm. I don't think I can."

"Patrick, dude, you're not making any sense," Pete said. He didn't want Pete there with him. That made _no sense at all_, seriously.

"I'm fine. I just need some space," Patrick said, and Pete's mind went blank.

Completely fucking blank.

Two hours later, Pete scowled up at the ceiling, lying on his bed in the dark. _Space?_ he thought. _What the fuck? _

*

"How's Patrick?" Andy asked.

"Well, hello, Andrew, nice to hear from you," Pete said, shifting back under his covers and pulling them over his head. He hadn't actually been sleeping, considering it was - he popped his head out again to see the clock - three fifteen in the afternoon.

Andy grunted. "Yeah. How's Patrick?"

"Okay?" Pete thought about it, thought about the two calls he'd gotten in the past week, and figured 'okay' was as good an educated guess as he could give. "Okay."

"Put him on," Andy said, and Pete frowned at his Sidekick, said, "Considering he's in Chicago, I think that might be kinda hard. Why don't you just call him yourself?"

"I did, he's not answering. And what do you mean, you're not—you're still in _LA_?" He sounded appalled, and, frankly, Pete was, too.

Not that he could do anything about it. "He said not to come," Pete said.

"Right, okay, so you're going to actually start listening to him now? Hey, Joe," his voice was slightly farther away, "Pete's still _here_."

Pete could hear Joe's faint, "what the fuck," in the background.

"I'm respecting his privacy," Pete yelled.

"What—" Andy cut off and there was a tussle, some loud slapping noises, and then Joe said, "Dude. Dude, you suck at being in love."

Pete opened his mouth, closed it, rubbed a hand over his forehead, because what could he say to that? It was really fucking true. "Whatever. He wants some _space_, so."

"And you're giving it to him? That makes no sense," Joe said, and then, "_Ow_, fuck, Andy—"

"You've hit new highs of stupidity, Pete," Andy said. "I wash my hands of you."

"Andy—"

"Wash. My. Hands," he repeated firmly, and then he hung up. Perfect.

*

The last person Pete expected on the other line when he picked up his phone in the middle of the night was Brendon. Always, _always_, in the past, whenever Brendon had wanted to talk to him, he'd made Ryan call first. It was just the way things were done. Pete was used to that. Pete liked having Ryan as a buffer, because Brendon was like a less cryptic, less _totally cool_, tinier, more hyper version of himself.

Brendon was a handful when Pete was in a _good_ mood, and he wasn't even sure why Brendon had called _him_, instead of, like, Patrick. Which actually wasn't a bad idea.

Brendon was _babbling_.

"Brendon, you should go visit Patrick. Stay with him for a while," Pete said, interrupting whatever he was saying about Ryan being a bitch and Jon being less than awesome or something. Who knew.

"Isn't he busy?" Brendon asked.

"He's kind of having a bad time right now," Pete said, because it was _true_. Whether Brendon would be helpful with that was arguable.

*

Of course, it was totally great that Patrick and Brendon were having such a grand time living together for, like, ever and ever amen. They were buddies, roomies. It was _perfect_. What was even better was getting a text message from Ryan one morning that read, _were on hiatus_.

Awesome. June was turning out to be a fucking fantastic month for Pete.

"Tell me this has something to do with Brendon," Pete said when Ryan picked up his cell. He _meant_ that, too, because he was pretty sure Patrick could fix everything if that was the case.

"It was a mutual decision," Ryan deadpanned.

"Don't give me that shit, Ross." No fucking way would Ryan vote for a hiatus right after writing several mostly-cool songs. There were one or two that eluded Pete, but that didn't necessarily make them bad. Just pretentious. Except for the one about the clowns. Pete was pretty sure that one wouldn't fly.

"Look, if you don't like it, you can kick Urie's _ass_, okay?" Ryan snapped. "He won't listen to me."

"That's because you're mean," Pete pointed out.

"Whatever. I'm a fucking sweetheart, really."

"A pussycat. Hang on," Pete said. "Seriously, _hang on_. Put Jon on the phone."

"How do you—"

"Oh, Jon Walker," Pete sang-sung.

"Fucker," Ryan muttered, and then Jon said, "Yo, Pete."

Pete grinned. "You keep Ryan honest, Jon Walker."

"It's a tough job." Pete could hear the smile in his voice. "Ryan's lucky I'm so awesome."

"Indeed," Pete said. "In-fucking-deed."

*

Brendon was Patrick's favorite Panic! boy. That was common knowledge to everyone except maybe Brendon. Still, buddies was one thing, but Pete thought Patrick should be having a little less _fun_, given that he'd wanted _space_, but apparently touring the zoo was typical Patrick-and-Brendon fare.

Patrick had this completely irrational and hilarious fear of giraffes, and if he was going to brave the zoo with _anyone_, it should've been Pete.

So maybe Pete was a little upset with Patrick. Maybe Pete spent the four hours it took Patrick and Brendon to come home brooding and texting Ryan and sending him pictures of things living in Patrick's fridge.

_pleas stop_

Pete grinned to himself, a little meanly. _u dont have2 look_

_i kindof do_, Ryan wrote back, and then sent a pic of his bare toes gripping a pencil, because he knew that freaked Pete the fuck out. They were like eagle talons or something. He could fish with those things.

_now its on ross_

_bring it_

By the time Brendon and Patrick got home, Pete had a nice collection of photos of Ryan's feet doing everyday activities - such as scooping up spaghetti with a fork and playing the guitar - and even though Pete never wanted to look at them again, seriously, he figured they'd be good blackmail material one day. It was always good to have stuff on Ryan Ross.

And then Charlie was blinking at him from his little car seat with clear, strangely serious green eyes and Pete, after the kind of day he'd had, just needed some cuddle time. So he stole him for an hour or so.

They holed up in the nursery and Pete told Charlie all about women and John Cougar Mellencamp and _Showgirls_, and it was all stuff he'd have to repeat someday - or maybe just amend, since Patrick would probably veto the _Showgirls_ talk - but there was no reason he couldn't get a head start on it all. Lay the foundation. Subvert whatever erroneous teachings Adrian was stuffing into his fragile brain.

At least he had Patrick to save his soul.

*

Pete wasted a lot of time in New York. It'd been a good enough destination when he hadn't wanted to stick around to watch Patrick coddle Brendon into going back to Panic! or whatever the hell he'd planned on doing to convince him that hiatus was a four letter word. Somehow, the whole Brendon Urie Coming Out Thing hadn't surprised him in the least.

Pete had never been particularly subtle, but holding back around Patrick, just that little bit, was like a fucking bad habit. He'd been off-limits, and then he'd been _Patrick_, and then he'd been married – and Pete didn't think he'd ever completely get the bitter taste out of his mouth from that one – and then Brendon had to pull this shit and of course, _of course_ Patrick went running to him. It just figured, and, no, it totally did not surprise Pete at all.

He bummed around with Travis a little. Sent Patrick postcards from the Empire State building and the Staten Island ferry and St. Patrick's Cathedral and a dozen other places they'd been to more times then he could count. None of them said 'wish you were here,' but he hoped the message was implied. A lot of them just had the time, eastern standard. An approximation of longitude and latitude. How many miles from Memphis, Tennessee, and how many steps from Rockefeller Center to Central Park to the corner of 42nd and Broadway . If you added all the numbers you'd come up with the sum total hours Pete spent thinking about sourdough pretzels, when sourdough pretzels clearly meant Patrick.

The weird thing about Gabe – or, okay, _one_ of the weird things about Gabe – was that he always knew when Pete was nearby. And thinking about food.

Pete's Sidekick went off just as he was slowing down in front of that little Italian bistro with the pan-fried cheese and lemon wedges.

"I'm thinking Chinese," Gabe said before Pete could even say hi. "I'm thinking crab rangoon."

"Close," Pete said, nodding. He looked down at his feet and scuffed his sneaker on the sidewalk. "Cheese. Mozzarella en carozza."

"Oh, oh, with _lemon_. You're right around the corner, dude, I'm coming down."

By the time Pete was seated at a table by the front window, Gabe was sliding in across from him, still in what looked like his pajamas. There were spaceships on his pants.

"What brings you to New York, man?" Gabe asked, flicking out his cloth napkin and tucking it carefully over his Living Colour t-shirt. "No wait, don't tell me." He waved a hand and then pressed his fingers to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. He hummed _This Is Halloween_. Anyone who hadn't already been staring at them was now staring at them. Then he popped open one eye and said, "Patrick."

Pete scowled and said, "Is on his way to Nevada to rescue Brendon from self ruin."

Gabe's other eye popped open and he grabbed for a breadstick. "Aww, you're so cute when you're jealous."

"I've been here for a _month_, asshole," Pete said.

Gabe frowned and asked, "You've been here for a month and you're just getting around to seeing me?

"I am mildly affronted," he went on. He cocked his head, thoughtful. "Mildly affronted and slightly put out. You should apologize before I storm off and leave you to eat all by your lonesome."

"Whatever, sorry. Bill knew I was here," Pete grumbled, sinking lower into his seat.

"William shall be dealt with, then. William shall be punished severely for this gross oversight. Now, are we having wine? Are you paying for this wine? Wait, wait, I'm sensing that you'd like to buy me several bottles of expensive cabernet to make up for causing me such pain and mental anguish. That's really cool of you, Pete. Seriously, man, only if you insist." Gabe smiled brightly at him.

There was a _reason_ Pete'd taken so long to visit Gabe. "Only if we don't talk about Patrick."

"Patrick is exactly who we're going to talk about," Gabe countered, nodding. "We are going to talk about Patrick, and you're going to show me the millions of pictures you have in your pocket of Charlie, and then you're going to try and convince me that you're not actually in love with wee little Patrick Martin Stump with pretty much zero success."

"Awesome."

Gabe grinned sharper. "To a magnitude you can't even _imagine_."

*

"How's Patrick," Andy asked, and Pete was hit with a wave of déjà vu as he made his way through the airport.

"I'm going to go with okay again," Pete said. "I thought you were washing your hands of me?"

"I like Patrick too much. You're not back in LA yet, right?"

"No." He was supposed to be. Pete had been ready to board that plane to California, ready and willing, and then he'd spotted a direct flight to O'Hare and instead found himself paying an exorbitant fee to change his ticket. Patrick wasn't even there, if he'd been planning a visit, so he had no clue what had compelled him.

"You're a jackass," Andy said.

"Hey. Hey, dude, did you just call to disparage me? 'Cause that's plain mean."

"_Jackass_. Patrick called me."

"Didn't you just." Pete paused in the middle of the walkway. "Wait, why ask me how he was if you already _knew_?"

"Not the point. The point is you're a jackass. You refused to bring him his kid, Pete, seriously, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"I'm not his nanny," Pete said, and he knew he sounded petulant, but whatever. It wasn't his job to cart Charlie off to see his dad—well. He wouldn't actually mind it if that _was_ his job, honestly, but it _wasn't_, and that was the whole problem, right? "Is that all?"

"Yeah, man, yeah." Andy sighed heavily. "Just. Think about what you're doing for once, okay?"

*

Adrian didn't even bother to knock and, okay, most people didn't bother to knock at Pete's house, but it was _Adrian_, and Adrian wasn't welcome in his humble abode. Ever. Except she had a tiny Stump in her arms, Pete's ultimate weakness. His kryptonite, only adorable and not in neon green rock form.

"I need you to be a grownup for a few days," Adrian said, handing over Charlie, his diaper bag, his blankie, and his favorite stuffed bunny, Dan. "Do you think you can handle that?"

"Finally abandoning him?" Pete asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Her hair was doing that evil flippy-feather thing, the Farrah fucking Fawcett, that Pete was sure she'd used to ensnare Patrick in the first place. Patrick was easily broken by short-shorts and big hair. Also, she was a tiny powerhouse blonde who could bake a mean peach cobbler.

Adrian rolled her eyes. "Funny," she said, then turned around and walked out of the den, back towards the front of the house.

Pete followed, meandering along behind her, curious. Charlie fussed and started chewing on the strings of his hoodie and Pete bounced him a little, making Dan Dan the Bunny Man dance on his chest, and Charlie gave him a little half-smile. Half-smiles from Charlie were, like, _magic_. Pete's heart fluttered.

Adrian ducked out the door and Pete stood in the open frame, watching as she hooked an arm through the car seat handle and snagged another bag, bigger than the diaper one. There was a pack-n-play leaning against the back tire.

"Your flight leaves in four hours," she said when she reached the stoop again. "He's fine with flying, but make sure you have some snacks. Cheerios are good. I've pumped some milk—"

"Whoa." Pete held up a hand. The hand with Dan. He shook him, and his little bunny ears flopped around comically. "Whoa, there. Let's not talk about your breasts, okay?" Not that Pete wasn't appreciative of breasts. Breasts were awesome. He just wasn't sure Adrian's weren't, like, comprised of thorns and pus and, okay. Okay, he really couldn't think that about Charlie's mom, because that was pretty vomit-inducing. Yeah.

Adrian pursed her lips. "You lied to Patrick," she said.

"No, no," Pete said, shaking his head emphatically, because he hadn't lied to Patrick, had not. He'd taken a slight Chicago detour. He was totally planning on going to LA. Soon. "I just changed my mind. I can change my mind, it's allowed."

"Right, you can. So you can change your mind about this, too."

"About—"

"You're _going_ to Nevada," she said, poking his chest with a sharp nail. "You're going to take Charlie to see his father and you're gonna quit being a pussy. Now." She straightened up and tugged down the hem of her t-shirt, smoothing a hand over her stomach. "As I said, I've pumped some milk for today, but he'll take formula and a little bit of milk. You'll need to buy some once you land. Okay?"

Pete really hated that Adrian had practically backed him into a corner, but on the other hand, _Charlie_. He got Charlie all to himself for almost the whole day. "Okay, sure, get out."

"Wow, you're such a charmer, Pete Wentz," Adrian drawled. Then her face tightened and her voice got low and she said, "You hurt him and I'll cut your hands off at the wrists."

Not the worst threat he'd ever gotten, but if they were talking about _Charlie_, that was kind of insulting. And if they were talking about Patrick, well. Patrick was _his_. He thought they'd already established that as fact. On that night that they swore they were never telling Patrick about, ever.

"I mean it, Pete," she said, then a smile bloomed across her face and she leaned in to nuzzle Charlie. "Mommy loves you," she murmured, lips pressed to his chubby cheek.

She smelled like cherries and fresh bread and talcum powder. She smelled like a mom. Pete softened a little and didn't bother glaring at her as she pulled away. It was probably all part of her evil plan, but whatever. He got Charlie.

Adrian kept her smile and patted Pete's cheek. "I'll see you in a few days."

*

"Oh, great," Ryan said when he opened the door, which was uncalled for, honestly.

"Hey, hey, I'm your _boss_," Pete admonished. "And I've got a little one. I'm all dependable and shit."

Ryan arched an eyebrow and stepped aside, sweeping a hand in invitation.

"Do not give me that look, Ryan Ross. I maintain," Pete said, moving inside and setting Charlie's car seat down gently, "that I'm totally an adult today." Charlie was completely out, little mouth half-open, head slumped to the side, pale eyelashes practically invisible against his equally pale cheeks.

"Pete," Brendon called out, bounding down the front stairs, and then he spotted Charlie and hushed his voice to an impossibly low, "Oooh, sleepy baby Chuck," which wasn't really impossibly low for normal humans, but for Brendon Urie, yes. He made grabby hands and crouched down to unbuckle Charlie's straps. "Sleepy, sleepy baby."

"Where's Patrick?" Pete asked.

"He locked himself in my bedroom," Brendon said. Charlie blinked open his eyes and yawned and Brendon went, "Aww, I missed you, peanut," and hugged him to his chest. Pete was vaguely disgusted. Or jealous. He could've been a little jealous.

"Give him here," Pete said, "and point the way."

Ryan heaved a sigh - seriously, Ryan used to _worship_ Pete, what the hell happened to _that_? Pete missed the deserved blind faith and sheer joy of his presence – and said flatly, "Second door on the left. Please note the frolicking purple unicorns and the sparkly Brendon's Room sign."

"Purple unicorns _rock_, my friend," Brendon said, reluctantly letting go of Charlie as Pete slipped his hands under his little baby armpits.

Charlie was seriously the cutest baby ever.

Pete crept up the stairs and knocked on Brendon's door. There was a lone green Pegasus with rainbow wings flying through the sky above a field of purple unicorns, a trail of stars exploding into Brendon's name. Wow. Impressive. "Trick?"

After a muffled thump, Patrick jerked the door open, hair rumpled and hatless, t-shirt old and stretched at the neck, and jeans, those really ancient ones that shouldn't have fit him anymore, but kind of did, anyway. His eyes were wild, tinged with just a hint of mania, and then he spotted Charlie and his entire body went lax, nearly boneless.

"Hey," he said softly. He reached out and lightly trailed three fingertips down Charlie's cheek. "Hey, baby."

Pete felt more than a little shitty for not giving him this earlier. "He demanded to see you," Pete said, grinning. "There was no reasoning with him."

Patrick smiled, still sort of dreamy, a blissed out exhaustion. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. He had this, like, irresistible plea. Even Dan was impressed." Pete figured, watching the pure delight cross Patrick's face as he lifted Charlie out of his arms, that babies made adults stupidly happy, because Pete had just been _so lame_ and normally Patrick would've completely called him on it, but Patrick was just. Amazed.

"Thanks," Patrick said, cheeks rosy and eyes glassily bright.

"Um." Pete fidgeted back and forth on his feet. "Welcome."

*

"Okay," Patrick said, getting out a notebook. It had kittens dressed up in little superhero outfits on the front, so Pete guessed it was Jon's. Charlie was lying on the bed, playing with Dan and a little monkey rattle thing Patrick called Horatio. "Okay, this is what I've figured out so far. I'm stuck in some sort of hell that looks vaguely like a Sandra Bullock movie."

Pete squinted, cocked his head. "Okay."

"Right." Patrick tapped a pen on the paper. "Right, and I'm pretty sure Spencer wanted to, like, hold hands in public or something, and Brendon freaked out and they mutually broke up, no matter what Ryan says, and now Brendon is overcompensating for his fuckup, because he's insane, and Spencer is possibly the most stubborn kid ever—"

"Besides you," Pete cut in.

"Besides me," Patrick agreed, which was a testament to how worn out he was, since he'd never normally agree about that, "right. So they're staying broken up and mooning over each other from afar and Brendon's wasting time coloring unicorns actual colors, since he feels it's his duty to fight the white supremacy or something, and oh my god. How long have I been here?"

"A week," Pete said. He craned his neck, trying to read Patrick's notes upside-down. He thought he spotted some underlined emphasis on the words _kill_ and _maim_, and there was most definitely a stick figure with horns and a forked tail labeled Ryan Ross. It was holding a deformed orange triangle and a thought bubble above its head was filled with HAs.

"It feels like _months_," Patrick moaned. He added a mustache to the stick figure. "I am. I'm living on _carrots_ here," – carrots! Deformed orange triangle equaled carrot, right – "there is every possibility I'm turning _yellow_, and those, those oat bran Os that taste like cardboard? I'm starting to _like_ them, okay." He leaned forward, skin tight around his eyes, and curled a hand over Pete's thigh. "How can Jon Walker be happy all the fucking time with oat bran Os and carrots?" he asked, voice kind of raw and raspy. "Tell me, Pete, how can Jon Walker, _real boy Jon Walker_, be happy?"

Pete was pretty sure real boy Jon Walker had his own stash of happy-making food that Ryan Ross didn't know about. But he wasn't going to volunteer that information to Patrick, since he seemed kind of on edge. "You know what you need? Ice cream."

*

Pete stole Ryan's car keys – he totally deserved it for making Patrick subside on carrots and crappy cereal all week – and they ended up sitting on the curb outside a little mom and pop grocery store with a pint of AmeriCone Dream.

"This is possibly the best thing I've ever tasted," Patrick mumbled. They'd had to buy a five hundred pack of plastic spoons, but it was totally worth it. Patrick had his eyes closed, vanilla ice cream smeared over his bottom lip.

"It's Comedy Central endorsed," Pete said.

"It's got _waffle cone_ in it. And _caramel_."

Pete laughed, hooked an arm around Patrick's shoulders. He tucked his head into the crook of his neck, pressed a kiss to his throat. Then he said, "So, I think you should leave."

"Leave where?"

"Leave _Brendon_." Pete straightened up and shrugged. "From what you've told me, it kind of sounds like he'd drop it if you weren't around to help."

Patrick eyed him sharply. "Really?"

"Maybe." Pete could have said more, but he didn't. Somehow, it didn't seem wise.

Patrick dropped his spoon into the pint and put it aside. "He's telling his parents."

"Huh."

"So. Yeah. I'm gonna stay for that, and then he can decide what he wants to do next." He linked his fingers together and stared down at his knees. "He's, you know. Pretty fucking brave."

Pete frowned. "I thought you said he was doing this for Spencer."

Patrick pursed his lips and gave him a look. "He's _in love_ with Spencer," the _you idiot_ was implied. "I mean, maybe it's not the best reason, but I'm not going to tell him not to do it _because_ of that. And it's still. It's still."

"Brave," Pete supplied, half-smiling.

Patrick smiled back. "Something like that, yeah."

"Okay, so," Pete clapped his hands, "if we're staying a few more days, we're totally getting Walker to tell us where the good stuff is hidden."

*

Jon pulled a bag out of the cabinet over the microwave and held it out like an offering, mouth a solemn line but eyes dancing. Pete leaned forward and looked inside and smiled. Cookies. Lots and lots of cookies.

"Are those—are those dog biscuits?" Patrick asked tentatively, like he was afraid Jon would say yes and then he'd have to punch him for teasing him about honest-to-god food meant for human consumption and not robots like Ryan.

"Cookies," Pete assured him, shaking the bag.

"Brendon thinks they're dog biscuits," Jon added, "and as long as Brendon thinks they're dog biscuits, Ryan doesn't care."

Patrick looked like he was going to cry. "You tell me this _now_? You tell me this now, after I've been starving for a _whole week_. Oh my god, _cookies_. I think I love you, Jon Walker."

"I seem to have that effect on people," Jon said, smiling, and Pete said, "It's a curse, but you bear it so well."

Jon hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "The giant tub of butter in the fridge is filled with chocolate kisses."

"If I wasn't so happy, I'd kill you," Patrick said. He had four sugar cookies in his hand and was going for the milk. "If anyone needs me," he said, pouring himself a healthy cup, "I'll be in Brendon's room."

"Don't leave any crumbs," Jon called after him. "And don't breathe on Brendon before brushing your teeth. He can smell the sugar."

Patrick waved dismissively and disappeared out of the kitchen, and Pete turned to Jon with a narrowed, assessing gaze. "So."

"So," Jon echoed.

"What do you think of all this?" Pete asked him.

"I think you make Patrick happy."

Pete rolled his eyes. "Well, _yeah_," he said, and then paused, cocked his head, because he _knew_ that, it was _so obvious_, but it sounded kind of special and cool coming from someone else; having the words said out loud. "Really?"

Jon grinned. "Dude."

"Yeah, okay." Pete nodded. "But what do you think about Spencer."

Jon grinned wider. "Spencer's great. I _love_ Spencer. Spencer occasionally makes me breakfast."

"Spencer is standing behind Pete," Spencer said drolly. "Spencer is not above justified homicide."

Pete gave Spencer a curious look as he crossed the kitchen to dig into the bag of dog biscuits still out on the counter.

"Spencer," Pete said slowly, watching very carefully for Spencer's reaction, because there was something distinctly teenaged girl about the whole situation, if you asked him, and he was practically an expert on teenage girls, "should own up to the fact that he's the reason Brendon's confronting his parents tomorrow."

When Spencer choked and spat out the bits of cookie that he hadn't yet swallowed, Pete thought it was the most flustered he'd ever seen him. Actually, Pete had never ever seen Spencer flustered before. If Ryan was a robot, then Spencer was the evil mastermind that'd created him. He probably had a lab somewhere with extra Ryan parts.

Spencer coughed, blinked, eyes watering. "What?" he managed finally.

"The big reveal. It's going down sometime tomorrow. You didn't know?" Pete tried his very best to look innocent, but that never worked when Patrick wasn't around. Patrick would back him up with these huge doe eyes and no one could doubt anything either of them said. Together, they were invincible. They should totally take their show to Vegas.

Spencer dropped his gaze to the floor, hair sweeping over his face, leaving only the pained downward curve of his mouth visible. Pete felt kind of bad. And then he remembered Spencer was acting like a pissy bitch and Brendon was being even more of an idiot than usual and Pete would honestly not mind the whole coming out drama, he totally wouldn't, if everyone would just cooperate and be _happy_ already.

He was strongly considering bringing Gabe and William into the mess. At the very least, it would be a lot more entertaining.

"Why would he." Spencer paused, did that hip cocking thing that Pete had once tried for hours to emulate – seriously, his hips just couldn't _do_ that, and Pete wasn't sure if he was glad or pissed off about it – and then huffed a little breath. "He's—"

"He's planning on publicly coming out, Spence," Jon said, curling an arm around his shoulders and squeezing. "He's better off telling his parents first, before they hear everything second hand, right?"

"But that's not my—"

"Totally your doing, man," Pete said, because Spencer had to recognize and embrace his responsibilities. Someone had to look after little Brendon Urie. Preferably someone who was not Patrick.

Spencer glared at him. His eyes were kind of scary, like maybe he was trying to burn a hole through Pete's skull with the power of his mind.

"It's not a bad thing," Jon said softly. "This is good."

"Good." Spencer scuffed his toe on the tile floor.

"Hey, they're, like, Mormons, right? So it's not like they're gonna cook and eat him or something for being gay."

"Yes, because Mormons and cannibals are so hard to keep separate, what the fuck, Pete?" Ryan said, hanging in the doorway. "Stop helping. Why are the dog biscuits out?"

"We have dog biscuits?" Brendon shouted from the other room, and his voice was getting closer and Ryan cut a hand through the air frantically and said, "Put them away, put them away _now_, or I swear I'll lock you all in the bathroom with him after he's eaten the _whole bag_."

*

"I feel a little bad putting Brendon out of his room in his time of need," Pete said, curled up on his side on the bed. He smiled at Patrick, who was smiling back at him. Charlie was in between them, snug in a yellow onesie and completely fascinated with the slowly revolving ceiling fan.

"No you don't," Patrick countered. He reached out and slipped his fingers around Charlie's hand and Charlie latched onto his thumb, tiny little digits curled tightly around his knuckle.

Pete leaned over and pretended to nip his feet, growling, and Charlie giggled, kicked out at him. Charlie hardly ever giggled. Pete was, like, stupid in love with him. He melted.

"I'm in love with your kid, Trick," Pete said. He hippity-hopped Dan up Charlie's stomach and made the bunny kiss his nose and Charlie dropped his hold on Patrick to grab at Dan's ears, tugging him forward to chew on his face. "I think maybe he owns more of my heart than even you."

Patrick ducked his head. Pete could see him grinning, though, under the brim of his cap, could see the flush spread up from his neck, and he thought, _this is easy_.

Pete laughed.

"What?" Patrick asked.

"You were being weird, man," Pete said. He shrugged. Fucking _space_, the little lovable shit. Right. Patrick was _his_, Adrian had totally agreed – Pete might have forced it out of her, but that didn't make it any less valid – and it was time Patrick just manned up and _acknowledged that_. Seriously. Patrick just couldn't go around _marrying other people_, thinking it was perfectly fine and acceptable.

Patrick snorted. "_I_ was being weird. Okay."

"Yeah." Pete reached over and wrapped a hand around the back of Patrick's neck, thumb pressing under his ear. "Are you done?"

"I wasn't. Pete," Patrick said, exasperated.

Pete just grinned wider.

"Fine. Fine, I'm _done_. Jesus, I hate you."

"You totally love me, dude," Pete said, because it was true. It was so true and it was _awesome_.

"Hey, so," Brendon popped his head around the doorjamb, "I was talking to Joe—"

"Why were you talking to Joe?" Patrick asked, eyes big.

"—and he thinks I should just get married."

  
**[Part III]**

Ryan is so not happy. The flowers. The flowers make it look like somebody _died_, okay, and who ordered _that many_ calla lilies?

"Where are the roses?" he asks, hands on his hips, glaring at no one and everyone. Everyone is against him. Everyone wants him to live out his life in abject _misery_. He can't believe Brendon and Spencer are _making this horrible mistake_. One day, Joe is going to pay. Pay for _everything_.

"Dude, chill," Jon says, knocking his shoulder. He grins at him. Jon has a magical grin, damn it.

And then he spots Spencer, hovering just outside the door to the chapel, all handsome in his dark gray suit, biting his bottom lip and looking adorably nervous, and Ryan _does not_ get teary-eyed. He totally doesn't.

Jon slides an arm around his waist, leaning into his side. "You're a softie, Ryan Ross," he says, and Ryan can't even _scowl_ at him. Jesus.

"Ruin my life, why don't you," he mutters, and leans back.

**

The day Charles Peter Stump was born was the day Spencer realized he was in love with Brendon.

Spencer had never intended to even sleep with Brendon, let alone _date_ him – Brendon had worn him down after months and months of pouting and highly inappropriate touching and increasingly bold and ridiculous come-ons and, seriously, Spencer was a guy; he could only hold out so long when someone was constantly sticking their hands down his pants - but somehow he'd ended up head-over-heels in fucking _love_ with the douche.

Brendon was gushing over the photos Pete had sent Ryan of baby Charlie, fingers tracing the curve of Charlie's tiny head on the computer screen, eyes big and awed, and it'd hit Spencer so hard he'd lost his breath.

He was so screwed.

*

Spencer did not like being in love. It was pretty much the worst thing ever, he decided, especially since Brendon was a complete ass about anything and everything.

But.

But Spencer woke up calmly content one morning, months after his revelation, with Brendon sprawled next to him, taking up more than his allotted share of the bed, a bony knee digging into Spencer's side and hands tucked up under his pillow. Spencer stared at the ceiling and wondered how he'd gotten to that point, where _Brendon_ – Brendon, who kissed him in the morning _specifically_ because his breath was so bad - was the most important part of his day.

Brendon always woke up _awake_. Bushy-tailed and bouncy, even before caffeine, and he straddled Spencer and nosed his cheek. "Hey, hey, no frowns."

Spencer said, "Just thinking," and tugged at Brendon's arms 'til he was flat along top of him, legs tangled.

"Thinking shouldn't hurt," Brendon murmured into his throat, and Spencer laughed.

He laughed and slid his hands down to palm the small of Brendon's back and then he said, "Brendon, Bren, I want to take you home."

"What?"

Spencer turned his head and grinned against Brendon's forehead, messy hair tickling his nose. "I want to take you home. Meet Mom and Dad."

Brendon snorted. "Dude, I've already met your parents. A lot. They love me."

"I want to take you _home_," Spencer stressed, arms tightening around Brendon and Brendon sort of. Stiffened up.

"Oh."

"Yeah." It wasn't such a big deal, really. Spencer had been open with his folks for a while, but they didn't actually know about _Brendon_.

Brendon pushed back and away from Spencer, stared at him. "As in, _this is my boyfriend_, take me home," he said, not a question, and Spencer lost his smile.

Brendon was a complete ass about anything and everything, yeah, but Spencer never figured he'd get _weird_ about coming out to his parents. Spencer's parents had never been anything but supportive, and Brendon _knew_ that, and Spencer had sort of expected Brendon to be ridiculously happy about it. Spencer was. This was a fucking _grand gesture_ type of thing. This was small and sharp and _important_.

"It's just my parents, Brendon," Spencer said, eyes narrowed, and Brendon said, "Yes, no, I know, that's cool," when clearly it wasn't. It wasn't at all.

Brendon shook off Spencer's loose grip and slipped off the side of the bed and _changed the subject_. He asked, "Do you think it's too soon to fly down and see Charlie again?" and Spencer didn't answer.

Spencer rolled over and took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

*

The fight, when it happened, was not so surprising, except in the way that it wasn't really a fight at all.

"So you and Brendon are being weird," Ryan said without looking up from his notebook. "You should stop it."

"Sure, Ryan," Spencer said, tapping his drumsticks on the coffee table. "I'll get right on that."

Ryan sighed. He set down his pen and asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Spencer shook his head, kept on drumming absently.

Ryan grabbed his wrist, and he was frowning when Spencer arched an eyebrow over at him. "Seriously, Spence, are you all right?"

"I'm—"

"Hey," Brendon pounced on the couch behind them, "hey, can I, um. Can I talk to you, Spencer?"

Spencer tipped his head back and stared at Brendon upside-down. "Sure."

It was evident in the way Brendon didn't touch him that something was wrong.

Ryan said, "I'm gonna just," and pushed himself to his feet, and before he was even fully out of the den, Brendon said, "So I'm thinking maybe we should just—"

"Okay, no, I know." Spencer jerked his head up, knew he was nodding like an idiot, but couldn't seem to stop. "That's fine." Spencer thought maybe if he didn't actually hear the words, it wouldn't hurt so much.

"Right," Brendon said, and then Spencer had to go and look at him, look at the way his brow was crinkled and his mouth was pulled down, how his fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt, like they always did when he was upset.

"It's not." Spencer paused, took a deep breath. "It's not a big deal, Brendon. I don't see why you can't—"

"It's your parents, Spencer," Brendon said, and his dark eyes were oddly earnest and soberly sad; sad in a way that wasn't puppy-dog blues, wasn't hug-me-make-me-happy simple. "It's a _huge_ deal, and I. I wish I could—"

"Fine. Fine, we won't. I can't." _I can't not want to have that_, he didn't say. He wanted to tell the whole fucking world, and he wanted Brendon to want that, too.

"Are we, like." Brendon swallowed, bit the corner of his lip. "Is this it?" he asked.

Spencer's eyes prickled and he looked down at his hands. That wasn't it, not by a long shot. Spencer didn't want them to be _over_ because of all that. He was _in love_ with Brendon, and that wasn't going to go away just because Brendon didn't want to, like, kiss him in front of his parents or whatever.

But he couldn't. He couldn't get his mouth to say _no_. Couldn't get the word up out of his suddenly dry throat. And when he looked up again, Brendon was gone.

*

After two weeks, when it was clear Brendon wasn't coming back to the cabin, they all went home. Ryan was fucking pissed about it, but Spencer figured he must have looked pretty miserable, since he didn't put up much of a fight, in the end. They just. Went home.

Spencer holed up in his parents' house and ate obscene amounts of Fruit Rollups and his mom's homemade chocolate pudding and ignored numerous calls from Ryan, until he woke up on morning and could actually _smell himself_ and he couldn't remember when he'd last had a shower or seen anyone other than his mom. His face itched with a half-grown beard and his pajama pants had mysterious stains on them.

"Okay," he said to himself, and then he stripped and went to scrub his skin off – he smelled _really bad_ \- because he seriously had to pull himself together. This. This wasn't like him. He wasn't a _mess_; he couldn't afford to be.

It took the whole day. He showered and shaved, he talked himself into eating a sandwich, drinking a tall glass of orange juice, and finally he could breathe a little easier. His skin didn't feel quite so tight.

And then he made his way over to Ryan's.

"Hi," he said, flopping down on Ryan's couch.

Ryan eyed him warily from the armchair and Jon, sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV – a riveting episode of Judge Joe Brown was on - looked over his shoulder and asked, "Good?"

"Better," Spencer answered, shrugging.

Jon stared at him, studied his face, and Spencer stared right back. Jon arched an eyebrow. Spencer arched both of his. Jon sucked in his lower lip and cocked his head, and Spencer squinched one eye and pressed his mouth into a flat line. Jon was asking, _are you really good?_ and Spencer was saying, _maybe for right now_, and Spencer wasn't sure why they didn't just say all that out loud, since it wasn't like Ryan couldn't read their expressions anyway, but somehow it was easier to be honest when they weren't actually talking.

"Okay, wow," Ryan said, kicking Jon lightly in the side. "We completely fail as young adults. Who's up for a movie?"

*

Ryan sounded like he was choking on pure rage when he told him about the proposed hiatus, standing in Spencer's kitchen, and then Jon said, "Don't worry," with a true smile in his eyes.

"Okay," Spencer said. He was kind of surprised he could speak at all, considering he felt like his entire world had crumbled to pieces, and that the least of it all, the _very least_, was the band. Hiatus meant not seeing Brendon, not talking to Brendon, not touching Brendon, for an indefinite length of time, and Spencer couldn't care fucking less about the _band_. He didn't say that out loud, though, since Ryan looked very close to stroking out.

"We'll tell Pete," Jon said - Ryan make an indescribable noise in the back of his throat and clenched his fingers so tight over the edge of the counter Spencer thought they might break – "and he'll think of something, and everything'll be fine."

*

Two months after Brendon skipped off to Chicago, Spencer opened his door to find him on his front stoop, staring down at the ground, his hair tumbling past his ears and shading his eyes, shifting back and forth on his feet.

"So I've been having this reoccurring dream," Brendon said without looking up. "I'm being eaten by a zombie Ryan, only, see, he's just eating my arm, so it's, like, cannibal Ryan or something, but." He flicked his gaze up and away. "When I tell him to stop, he says that I'm the one who wanted a hiatus, which, okay. True. But that doesn't have anything to do with Ryan eating my arm." He frowned. "I don't think so, at least. Maybe—"

"Brendon," Spencer cut in. "What are you doing here?"

"It was a mistake."

Spencer might have stopped breathing for a minute. Then he asked, "What?"

Brendon rubbed the back of his neck. "The hiatus. It was a bad idea, okay?"

Spencer nodded, felt his eyes start to prickle, because _goddamnit_. "Ryan's not here," he managed, and then shut the door in Brendon's face.

*

They went back to the cabin. They went back to the cabin to bond and rehearse or whatever, make sure they still _worked_, and Spencer was fine. He was totally fine with everything, even though his room was no longer Brendon's room and he no longer woke up with Brendon wriggling up and over to straddle his waist, humming his stupid morning songs in his ear.

"I really think," Brendon said, sitting down across from Spencer at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal.

Spencer blinked at him. "What?"

"I really think you should talk to Ryan about the sad tragic clown song." Brendon bobbed his head and then gave him a big, hopeful grin.

"Um. No," Spencer said. After all, _Spencer_ didn't have to sing it. The drumming for it was actually kind of cool.

Brendon made a face. "He's not happy with me right now."

Spencer bit his lip, tore off a piece of toast and then just. Kept tearing it up, making a little pile of buttery cinnamon toast crumbs. His coffee was rapidly cooling at his elbow.

"You know?" Brendon added, cocking his head, and Christ, what the hell did Brendon think he was _doing_?

"I'm not." Spencer took a slow breath, in and out and count to ten. He stared down at the tabletop and finally said, "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," Brendon said, voice small, and Spencer risked a glance up, just in time to catch Brendon darting his gaze away, towards the coffeemaker on the counter, the sink, the window framed by built-in cabinets.

Spencer said, "Brendon," and Brendon's eyes jumped to his, fluttering and wide and brows tilted just slightly up over his nose.

"Yeah?"

Spencer wanted to know what the fuck was going on inside his squirrelly little brain, wanted to know why he'd _left_, just took off without a word or a fight, and why he'd come back, and why he was acting like Spencer had maybe _killed_ his _dog_. This was not Spencer's fault. It wasn't, it really, really wasn't. "Nothing," Spencer said with a slight shrug.

Brendon smiled at him, the grin cracking at the edges, like his lips were stiff and it was an effort to push up his cheeks, but his eyes. His eyes held a shine of affection, and his fingers were twitching, like he wanted to reach right out and catch Spencer's hand, maybe press their palms together like he'd done millions of times before over sleepy morning breakfasts.

Or maybe that was what Spencer wanted to him do.

Spencer swallowed hard and pushed away from the table. He quietly cleaned up the mess he'd made and poured his cold coffee down the drain, and then he walked away.

*

Spencer was actually really glad that Ryan freaked out so badly when Brendon announced he was coming out. It gave _him_ less time to freak out, to worry over the ramifications – for all of them, for the band, for Spencer alone, as Brendon's unofficial ex.

"I want balloons," Brendon said, arms wide. "I want ponies with ribbons in their manes and those circus dogs that twirl around on their back legs—"

"Brendon."

"Seriously, it should be this huge party, right, because I'm gonna be fucking proud and strong and—"

"_Flaming_, Jesus," Ryan cut in, face red and hands clenched into fists. "Oh my god, I'm going to fucking kill you, Urie. You're going down, you little weasel."

Brendon frowned. "I think you need to be a little more support—_ow_, shit, did you—you _bit_ me, dude," Brendon flailed, stumbling backwards.

Spencer lunged and grabbed Ryan around his skinny little waist and hauled him back, because once Ryan started biting there was only about ten point five seconds before he burst into tears. He stuffed him into the downstairs bathroom and locked the door.

Ryan was heaving, that's how hard he was breathing, and Spencer counted down until the heavy breaths deteriorated into broken sobs.

"He's. He's going to fucking _ruin_ us, Spencer," Ryan gasped, voice muffled by his hands pressed up over his mouth. Huge, fat tears were pooling at the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks and dripping all over his fingers.

Spencer wanted to smack him. It was not the first time he'd wanted to smack Ryan when he technically, as the understanding best friend, should've been comforting him, but this issue was kind of touchy for Spencer to begin with.

Instead of hitting him, though, Spencer just grabbed a wad of tissues and tucked them into Ryan's hands – still covering half his face – and then leaned back against the sink and waited for Ryan to calm down, arms crossed over his chest.

"Done?" he asked, when Ryan's hiccupping, gaspy sobs wound down to the occasional wet sniffle.

Ryan rubbed the flat of his hand under his nose, tissues pressed up against his eyes. "Yeah," he said thickly.

"Okay." Spencer nodded. "Okay, so, I get that you're upset, and I know Brendon's being kind of a dick and a spaz about this," god, did he ever, "but you're going to have to get over it."

"But—"

"We'll figure something out. We'll be fine." Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose. "This isn't something we can stop him from doing, okay?" And he didn't wish that he could have, not really, but he was honestly more confused by Brendon than he'd ever been by anybody in his entire life.

He knew they should talk. He knew that they _had_ to talk, but he wasn't sure when and he wasn't sure how, and right then Ryan had to be coaxed out of his homicidal snit, so he calmly clasped Ryan's wrists in his hands and shook his arms until Ryan's red-rimmed eyes caught his.

"You're allowed to be pissy," Spencer said, because Ryan was kind of pissy about most things, and that shouldn't have to change.

Ryan opened his mouth, but Spencer cut him off with, "But you can't be _mean_, Ryan Ross, and you can't stop him. You can't say _no_." Brendon wasn't asking permission, not really, but Spencer knew if Ryan pushed him enough, was angry enough about it, Brendon would back off. That was just the way they worked.

Ryan scrunched up his nose. "Fine," he said, shaking off Spencer's grip. He pulled out some more tissues and swiped his eyes again. "Fine, but this is going to be a _disaster_."

Spencer smiled a little, rueful, because he wasn't going to bother arguing that. He pushed Ryan towards the door. "Come on. Put on your Brave Little Toaster face," Spencer said.

"Fuck off," Ryan said, but there wasn't any real heat to it.

When they ducked back into the hall, Spencer could hear Patrick's voice mingling with Jon's and Brendon's in the den, and he felt kind of relieved. Patrick liked Brendon, that was obvious, but Spencer didn't think he'd let Brendon walk all over him, either.

He figured maybe he could at least talk him out of the circus dogs.

*

Technically, Spencer supposed he wasn't really talking to Brendon. They weren't exactly avoiding each other, but they weren't normal, either; if the words weren't about the music, about the band, then they weren't saying them at all.

Spencer was maybe just the very least bit jealous of Patrick, and how he'd swept in to rescue Brendon and organize his notes and flowcharts, but he was mostly glad. Glad that _someone_ knew what to do, how to handle everything.

And he got to spend some time with Charlie, who was sort of unbelievably adorable. Spencer wasn't much of a kid person, but Charlie was so affable and downright _pleasant_ that Spencer had a hard time not loving him.

Ryan seemed kind of put off by him, but it was Ryan, and Ryan was sort of put off by most humans.

Charlie was sitting up on his blanket, hands clutching his stuffed bunny. Jon was on his side next to him, and Ryan was eyeing him suspiciously from the couch.

"Hey, check this out," Jon said, grinning, then asked, "Charlie, Chuck, hey, where's the cat? Cat? Cat?"

Charlie's head turned a bit, wobbling, eyes blinking, and he stuck a chubby finger out to where Dylan was lounging under a chair, tail flicking.

Spencer said, "Dude, he's _smart_."

Ryan looked skeptical. "He pointed out the cat."

"He's nine months old. He's smart." Jon smacked Ryan's calf.

"Isn't he supposed to be crawling already?" Ryan asked. "Babbling, maybe?"

"He hums," Jon said. He wrapped his hands around Charlie's back and nuzzled his stomach. Charlie hit him on the head with the bunny. "He's, like, mini-Patrick."

Spencer snorted, and Jon sent him a curiously soft look, and then later he cornered him in the hallway outside the bathroom with a quiet, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Spencer said automatically, and then he clutched Jon's arm, right below the elbow, and asked, "What do you—do you think he's thought this through?" and Spencer knew the answer to that before Jon followed his eyebrow arch of disbelief with a firm, "No."

"Right." Spencer sighed. He rubbed a hand over his forehead.

"Hey, hey." Jon caught his wrist and pulled him into a hug. He hooked his chin over his shoulder. "Hey."

"Yeah."

"That's why Patrick's here, right?" Jon's voice hummed along the skin of Spencer's neck.

Spencer nodded. "Yes, sure, I know." He _did_ know, but that really didn't make him feel any better.

*

Spencer should have seen it coming. When he'd brought up Brendon's family to Patrick, Patrick had gone wide-eyed and slightly panicky, and Spencer should have known that Patrick would have pushed the issue with Brendon – which had kind of been Spencer's point, of course – and that Brendon wouldn't have backed down. Which was what Spencer had been aiming for, even though he really knew, deep down, that it wouldn't work. This was _Brendon_.

Brendon, who had left his home for a crappy job and a shitty apartment on the off chance that they'd be famous one day. The fact that it'd paid off, that they were exactly where they'd always planned on being, only made Brendon bolder.

"Brendon."

Brendon glanced up at him from his coloring book, smiled. "Spencer, hey."

Spencer crossed his arms over his chest and figured he could approach this several different ways, the most obvious being irrational yelling. That was more Ryan's thing, though, and it seemed kind of wrong to bring up the whole 'you wouldn't come out to my parents but you'll come out to the world' issue, at least while Brendon faced the looming threat of disownment. He settled on a calm, "Pete said you're visiting your parents tomorrow?"

Spencer recognized a fleeting spark of panic in Brendon's eyes before he nodded and forced a bright, tight smile. "Yep."

Spencer nodded back. He dropped his gaze to the floor, shrugged. "If you need anyone to come with—"

"No, no, that's." Spencer jerked his head up and Brendon was shaking his vehemently. "That's cool, Spence, but I'll be fine."

"I didn't mean, like, _with_ you," Spencer elaborated, even though maybe he did, because why the fuck not, right? Except for some reason Spencer still didn't quite understand, they weren't together anymore, and it made his chest fucking _hurt_ sometimes.

Brendon kept shaking his head, not looking at Spencer at all. "No, this is. This is something I need to do by myself, right?" and it was like he was _really_ asking Spencer that, like he needed to make sure, and Spencer thought _oh fuck, no_. Seriously, _no_. He wasn't sure Brendon knew the difference between _for_ and _by_, because there were reasons, good reasons, fucking awesome reasons to come out, and all of them were right, and it was always nice not to have to do it alone.

Ryan had been Spencer's rock, and Spencer couldn't even imagine what it would've been like if he'd had to face his parents without him hovering in the doorway, hiding behind a glass of water, ready to swoop in and steer him clear if any toxic waste had started to fall.

"Take Patrick, then," Spencer urged. "But don't take Pete."

Brendon laughed, shook his head. "Seriously, I'll be fine," he insisted, and Spencer didn't think he was _lying_, exactly, but he also didn't think it was true.

*

"Why are we here again?" Ryan asked, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel. He had on brown leather driver's gloves, because he was a giant tool. Seriously.

Spencer glared at him. "We're being supportive friends," he said, and then Jon said, "Hey, I see him, they're. Through the living room window, right?"

Jon had binoculars, because they were maybe half a block away from the Urie residence, on the opposite side of the street, hiding in Ryan's car.

"Can you tell what's going on?" Spencer asked. Brendon had been in there for a while, maybe an hour, and it was the first sign of movement they'd gotten.

"Flailing. Flailing can't be good."

"Are they—" Ryan paused, and Spencer reached over and squeezed his shoulder, held on, because they were all worried, despite Ryan's bitching.

"No one seems to be—oh, wait, um, I think he's—" And then the front door was flung open and Brendon tore outside, down the steps, and Spencer couldn't tell his expression from that far away, but he had his shoulders hunched and his hands fisted. Jon said, "Mobilize," and they all spilled out of the car just as Brendon was fumbling for his keys.

"Brendon," Spencer called out as they crossed the street, and Brendon's head came up, and he didn't look surprised, just sort of. Wrecked.

Jon reached him first, grabbed the car keys out of his hand. He kissed his temple, quick, fingers wrapped around his nape, and then he turned to Brendon's Mazda and unlocked the drivers' side door. "See you at home," he said, giving a little wave, and Spencer shackled Brendon's wrist, gently tugging him along, back to Ryan's car.

Brendon didn't say anything, not even when Ryan curled around him in a tight hug, not even when Spencer pushed him into the backseat and climbed in after him.

"Brendon," Spencer said, and Brendon shook his head, slumped down low in the seat. Spencer sighed and tugged on Brendon's sleeve.

Brendon glanced at him, eyes dark with hurt and maybe something like anger.

"Come here," Spencer half-whispered. He tugged on his shirt again, jerked his head, and Brendon kind of fell into his side.

He fell into his side and clutched at Spencer's hip and pulled his knees up and suddenly Spencer had a lapful of Brendon, burrowed close, head on his shoulder, breathing a little ragged. "Spence," Brendon rasped.

"Yeah."

"Spence, they think that I—" Brendon's fingers dug into the skin of Spencer's waist, up under the hem of his t-shirt. "How can they _think_ that?"

Spencer wasn't exactly sure what Brendon was saying, what his parents had said to him, but he figured it was pretty fucking terrible. He tightened his hold and pressed his cheek onto Brendon's head. "I don't know," he murmured.

He caught Ryan's gaze in the rearview mirror. Ryan looked a little like he wanted to take out Brendon's entire family with an Uzi.

"Let's go," Spencer said, and Ryan nodded grimly and pulled away from the curb.

*

"We made dinner," Pete said, smiling, when they filed into the cabin, Brendon leaning heavily into Spencer, clasping his hand, and Ryan hovering behind them like an enraged mother hen. Jon had waited on the front stoop and then followed them inside, tossing Brendon's keys on the coffee table.

Spencer was sure Brendon would pull away, tuck himself up in his room, but he should've known better.

Brendon rubbed a palm over his eyes and straightened up, smiling back at Pete. It didn't even look strained or forced, and he kept his hand in Spencer's, laced tightly, as he walked over to the kitchen table, prettily set for six.

"Smells good," he said, voice only a little bit thick.

Spencer wrapped his free hand around Brendon's wrist. "Brendon, hey, you don't—"

"I'm hungry," he said, slanting Spencer a look that was almost weirdly happy.

Later, he slipped into Spencer's room after him. He turned off all the lights and slid into the bed behind him, plastering himself against Spencer's back. He said, "God, Spencer, you," into his neck, lips moving hotly along his skin.

"What?" Spencer asked, turning his head slightly.

Brendon sucked in a shuddery breath. "You. You did that before, with your parents?"

"I did that with _Ryan_, Brendon. Jesus, I." He flopped over onto his back, hauling Brendon up into his side, hooking their legs together, and he whispered against his temple, "You went in there alone, you fucking lunatic."

Brendon laughed into his collarbone, a single broken sound. "Wasn't so bad."

Spencer snorted. "You're insane." He shook his head. "Christ, I love you."

"You." Brendon jerked back, levering up on his hands, and Spencer suddenly had a flashback to that morning, that horrible fucking morning when Brendon had walked out, but Brendon just sort of beamed at him, teeth flashing white in the dim moonlight filtering through the open windows. "You _love_ me."

Spencer narrowed his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure Brendon wasn't, like, mocking him. "Maybe."

"You so love me, Spencer," he said. "You _adore_ me," and his tone, his tone wasn't really teasing, as far as Spencer could tell, but it was sort of affectionate and awed, like he couldn't believe it was true, but that he couldn't believe it was _not true_ at the same exact time. Like it was all so damn simple, so _easy_, and Spencer. Spencer'd had that revelation months ago, right?

Which was why he knew he could say, "You love me, too, dork," with utter conviction.

Spencer was maybe not so prepared, though, for the breathless, "Marry me, Spencer," that came right after.

  
**[Part IV]**

The surprise is that no one knows whose wedding it is. There are paparazzi at the door, lining the sidewalks behind a police barrier, there's buzz, and Brendon can hardly believe nothing's been leaked yet, but they don't know. It's going to be huge. It's going to be magnificent and shocking and the kind of show he's always, always wanted to do, except.

Except he feels kind of sick to his stomach and achy all over.

Except Spencer's hovering at the back of the church, watching wide-eyed as the florists rush around, Ryan and Adrian barking dueling orders at them, almost down to a catfight right in the middle of the aisle - which, hey, would be hilarious, and Brendon's really hoping it'll come to that - and he's pale and shaky and not exactly what Brendon would call happy. Brendon really wants Spencer to be happy.

"I don't actually want to get married," Spencer says to the air, to anyone, to the plush red carpet. He sounds kind of desperate. No one seems to be paying any attention to him.

Except Brendon, of course, because Brendon always pays attention to Spencer, and he slips his hand into his, linking their fingers together. He whispers, "I want to meet your parents, Spence," into his ear.

Spencer turns to look at him. "What?"

Brendon grins. "I'm not sure I want to get married, either."

"Then what the fuck—"

Brendon leans up into him, presses their lips together. He backs off a little after a second and says, close to his mouth, "I want to meet your mom and dad. I want to kiss you on a park bench in the middle of June, and I want to hold your hand, like, every second of every day."

Spencer swallows. "Brendon—"

Brendon kisses him again, longer, slower, with some tongue, even, until he feels Spencer loosen up against him, slide a hand along the back of Brendon's neck. When he pulls away this time, he leans his forehead against Spencer's shoulder. He sighs, he laughs a little, and says, "I want to walk out of this church right now—"

"Without the ponies?" Spencer asks, and Brendon can hear the smile in his voice.

"We'll walk out _together_," Brendon goes on, ignoring him, "and this won't be our wedding anymore, and maybe, maybe one of those reporters out there will catch a glimpse of us and _know_, and that's. That's how I want us to be."

"You're a romantic," Spencer says, but he's breathless and his fingers are tight around Brendon's.

"I want you to be happy, Spencer Smith," Brendon says. He tilts his head, opens his eyes wide and juts his lower lip out, just the tiniest bit. "Be happy with me?"

*

With Charlie fit over his hip, Patrick knocks twice and then pokes his head through the door. Adrian's in her slip, hair pulled up in a messy topknot, one shoe on and one shoe waving around in a vaguely threatening manner as she yells into her cell.

She spots Patrick and mouths 'I'm going to kill Ryan.'

Patrick smiles. Ryan and Adrian haven't been able to agree on anything, undermining each other at every opportunity. He finds that funnier than he probably should.

Charlie signs _more_ and then _mommy_, because even though he's just over a year old, he's yet to say anything other than Da, toast, Hemmy, and no. He's fully _aware_ of what other words mean, knows exactly what you're saying, but he's stubbornly silent most of the time, using simple signs and nonsense noises to gain attention.

Adrian slaps her cell shut with a groan and presses the antenna into her forehead hard enough to leave a mark. "Everything is completely out of control," she says.

"Exactly how Brendon wants it, then." Charlie's squirming now, ready to leap out of his arms, and he passes him to Adrian with a roll of his eyes. "You volunteered for this, you know," Patrick reminds her. He's still not sure why, except her eyes had lit up at the prospect, and until Ryan had stalked in, vetoing just about everything she'd already planned on and dressing pretty much the entire bridal party in green crushed velvet, she seemed to have been having fun.

"Hey, kiddo," Adrian says, kissing Charlie's cheek. "Don't you look handsome?"

Charlie signs _more_ again, with a little whine.

"There's some Cheerios left in his bag," Patrick says. "And your hair's a little…" He trails off, because Adrian's staring at him and it's kind of scary. Especially since it looks like something got caught in her hair and died.

"What, Patrick? My hair's _what_?"

Patrick rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "Nothing."

He smiles at her, though, because they're a lot better, the two of them, since she's stopped nagging him about Pete, and since Pete's practically moved in with him, and since Patrick's admitted that Adrian had been completely right all along, and is clearly 'the goddess of all things romantic,' and that Patrick was a 'lowly peon, a brainless slave to his fruitless denial' – there'd been a script, and the worst part was that he'd had to say it in front of her mom and Andy – and the teasing Adrian, the Adrian who bakes him pie and eats pints of ice cream with him, is back in Patrick's life.

Only at a much smaller dose, because Pete's kind of scarily possessive.

"Patrick," Adrian says, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

Patrick blinks. "Yeah?"

She's got her cell phone out again, and Patrick thinks, if the pitch is any indication, the loud, tinny voice on the other end is Ryan. "Patrick, this is important, okay? Do you know where Brendon and Spencer are?"

*

"So he calls me for, like, advice," Joe says, taking a hit off the spliff he's graciously sharing with William in the coat closet at the back of the church. "Advice from a successfully married man and all. Dude, I'm like. I had a three year anniversary last month. I'm totally old and wise."

William – decked out in the same velvet sport jacket as Joe, with the addition of a circlet of gerber daisies on his head - is lounging against the wall in between a dark brown trench coat and the brass umbrella stand, legs stretched out in front of him. He smiles. "Joseph," he says, "you give the world's worst advice."

"I _know_." Joe laughs, because he gives fucking _terrible_ advice. Everyone knows it, though, so it's not like they can blame him. He's totally not scared of Ryan Ross.

"S'long as I look pretty, though," William says with a shrug. He finishes the joint, inhaling deep, then letting smoke curl out of his nose as he slips into an even more boneless sprawl. There are white and green ribbons tangling in his hair, spiraling down from his official flower girl headpiece and tumbling over his shoulders. He's in charge of Charlie, too, the little ring bearer.

Joe's not so sure smoking up was a good idea, when he remembers that. He's probably the worst godfather ever. Worse even than that time he'd lost Hemmy for three days, only to find out that Patrick had taken him while he'd been hotboxing Pete's bathroom. The problem, Joe figures, is that his wife is entirely too strict.

He pats William's foot. "The prettiest," he says. "Prettier than Spencer, even."

William frowns at that, though, and murmurs, "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride."

Joe isn't going to touch that one.

*

"Our lovebirds are escaping," Pete says, stepping out behind the church, watching Brendon and Spencer skulk across the parking lot. They'd gone out the front, apparently, which was surprising, but now they're darting furtive glances towards the back of the chapel. Luckily, the doorway's hidden in shadows from the bell tower and the late afternoon sun.

Gabe grins at Pete, a little evil around the edges. "Don't worry," he says as a car door slams in the distance. He waves a hand, fingers wiggling. "I disabled their ride."

Pete nods, and there's an attempt to start up an engine, the whir-whir-whir resulting in a weak thunk. "They'll go for Ryan's next," he says idly, leaning back against the stone next to Gabe and crossing his arms.

"All taken care of."

Gabe has many and varied talents, hidden depths of deception, so Pete doesn't bother to ask what, specifically, he's done to their cars - he hopes it's something he can fix, but even if he can't, Pete knows that wouldn't have actually stopped Gabe from tampering with them. "You have a vested interest in this ceremony?" he asks, eyebrow arched.

Gabe shrugs. "Hey, _true love_ and all, right?" His tone is only half mocking, since Gabe sometimes apparently likes to think he has a romantic soul. Pete's pretty sure those are the times he sings about his basement.

Pete straightens up from the wall, tugs on his snazzy velvet jacket and clears his throat. "If you wanna collect them when they're done trying to jack everyone's cars?"

Gabe gives him a loose salute. "Sure thing, Pete."

Pete is off to find his Patrick and his Charlie-bear, hoping to avoid all contact with the devil woman, whose innate evilness is apparently only exacerbated when forced into proximity with Ryan Ross, mandroid.

Pete thinks Patrick definitely had something to do with those two collaborating – although collaborating's probably not quite the right term for it; the only thing they agreed on was that Pete wasn't allowed to help, but, whatever - since Patrick occasionally holds these really awesome grudges, and there was that whole 'Adrian is a queen among women' speech, and Ryan still has the cookie-hiding incident to pay for.

Patrick can be sort of devious. It's one of the things Pete loves best about him.

*

Ryan is only slightly worried when he can't find Spencer. And by slightly, he means a really fucking lot. "Have you seen the grooms?" he asks Jon, because Jon is just _standing_ there, grinning stupidly.

He scratches the back of his neck. "I think they left?"

"They left," Ryan deadpans. He's thinking of killing someone. He's pretty sure he can get away with it; pin it on Adrian, maybe, who's like a tiny screeching harpy. Or one of those half-man half-goats, with the hooves and horns and the _horrible taste in fabric_.

Jon grins wider and says, "Walked right out the front doors."

"Of course." There are times when Ryan wishes they all never met, that he'd stayed in Vegas, ended up a lounge singer on the Strip with big hair and bigger dreams. There are times when Ryan thinks that would've been awesome.

And then Jon does that thing that he does; that indescribable sparkling-eye thing that's even more potent than his grin.

"Damn you, Jon Walker," Ryan says, trying very hard to scowl. He shifts his weight onto his hip, tugs off his hobo gloves and tosses them onto the podium where the guestbook is open and waiting. He really likes their matching jackets, too, and now what'll they do with them?

"I make you a better man," Jon says mock-earnestly, clasping Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan would argue that, except he's pretty sure it's true.

*

Brendon is giggling by the time they figure out that none of their cars are working, and that it'd be tricky lifting any other keys without getting caught.

Spencer thinks it's kind of funny, too.

"You know what we have to do," Brendon says, schooling his face into what he probably thinks is a sober expression, but really just makes him look constipated.

"I really don't," Spencer says, and then Brendon is tugging him back around the corner of the church, towards the front, and Spencer digs his heels in and says, "Oh, no way. Nuh-uh, Brendon. _No_."

Brendon's kind of strong for his size, though, and Spencer's suddenly blinking at the press again, Brendon behind him, hands firm on his shoulders, grinning against the back of his neck.

He sing-songs, "My little pony, my little pony—"

"_Brendon_," Spencer hisses, because there is no way, _no fucking way_ he's escaping on one of the ponies Brendon hired for the day. There are three of them, sorrel and plump and big enough to hold them, really, except Spencer is not using them to run away from their wedding, oh my god.

They have pink and white ribbons in their manes, braided through their tails, and they. They _glitter_ in the sun. They're _prancing_, right there on the sidewalk.

"We're little, we can share one," Brendon murmurs, laughter in his voice. "It'll be sweet."

Spencer can feel his resolve weakening in the wake of Brendon's Mischief Boy tone, the same damn endearing one that'd gotten Spencer to say yes to all this, this _marriage_, in the first place, but he still protests, "We can't."

"Ponies, Spencer Smith," Brendon says, poking his side. "_Ponies_."

Brendon and his fucking weird hoofed animal fetish.

People are yelling at them now, shouting their names, camera flashes are going off, and sooner or later Ryan's gonna hear the commotion and come running out to slaughter them.

"You're so going to pay for this," Spencer mutters.

He takes Brendon's hand, pulls him so they're even in front of the first pony – "Sprinkles," Brendon tells him, practically bouncing out of his shiny dress shoes – and the weird thing is, the really odd or maybe just appropriate thing is that this is all Spencer ever really wanted. Brendon's hand in his, open and unafraid and happy, and the ponies are, like, his concession to Brendon.

If he thinks about it like that, it's not so hard to grab the polished bridle crossing Sprinkles' cheek, to smile over his shoulder and say, "You first."

**

The day Brendon and Spencer didn't actually get married was the day Pete and Patrick started thinking about it.

Or, well, Pete started thinking about. Gabe sort of elbowed him in the ribs and laughed about what an awesome idea it was, and Pete sent Patrick this scary-ass grin, and Patrick could practically read his mind on that one.

Patrick had his doubts about how, "fucking fantastic it'll be, seriously, Patrick, _marriage_," because he'd already tried that once, and with the notable exception of Charlie, it hadn't been all that successful. But maybe he was willing to let Pete try to convince him. Maybe he was willing to be convinced.

Fin.

  


**Alternate Gratuitous My Chemical Romance Ending**

  
"Our lovebirds are escaping," Pete says, stepping out behind the church, watching Brendon and Spencer skulk across the parking lot. They'd gone out the front, apparently, which was surprising, but now they're darting furtive glances towards the back of the chapel. Luckily, the doorway's hidden in shadows from the bell tower and the late afternoon sun.

Frank grins at Pete from around his cigarette. "Don't worry," he says. "Bob disabled their ride."

"That's our Bob," Mikey drawls. "Always thinking ahead."

The three of them watch as Spencer attempts to start up the engine, the whir-whir-whir resulting in a weak thunk.

"They'll go for Ryan's next," Pete says idly. He leans back against the stone next to Frank, crossing his arms.

"Taken care of."

"You guys got a vested interest in this ceremony?" Pete asks, eyebrow arched.

"Bob's wearing crushed velvet, dude." Mikey shakes his head. "There's no way he's letting them out of this."

Pete thinks the outfits are sort of snazzy. He straightens up from the wall, tugs on his jacket and clears his throat. "If you wanna collect them when they're done trying to jack everyone's cars?"

Frank gives him a salute. "Sure thing, Wentz."

Pete is off to find his Patrick and his Charlie-bear, hoping to avoid all contact with the devil woman, whose innate evilness is apparently only exacerbated when forced into proximity with Ryan Ross, mandroid.

Pete thinks Patrick definitely had something to do with those two collaborating – although collaborating's probably not quite the right term for it; the only thing they agreed on was that Pete wasn't allowed to help, but, whatever - since Patrick occasionally holds these really awesome grudges, and there was that whole 'Adrian is a queen among women' speech, and Ryan still has the cookie-hiding incident to pay for.

Patrick can be sort of devious. It's one of the things Pete loves best about him.

*

Ryan is only slightly worried when he can't find Spencer. And by slightly, he means a really fucking lot. "Have you seen the grooms?" he asks Jon, because Jon is just _standing there_, grinning stupidly.

He scratches the back of his neck. "I think they left?"

"They left," Ryan deadpans. He's thinking of killing someone. He's pretty sure he can get away with it; pin it on Adrian, maybe, who's like a tiny screeching harpy. Or one of those half-man half-goats, with the hooves and horns and the _horrible taste in fabric_.

Jon grins wider and says, "Walked right out the front doors."

"Of course." There are times when Ryan wishes they all never met, that he'd stayed in Vegas, ended up a lounge singer on the Strip with big hair and bigger dreams. There are times when Ryan thinks that would've been awesome.

And then Jon does that thing that he does; that indescribable sparkling-eye thing that's even more potent than his grin.

"Damn you, Jon Walker," Ryan says, trying very hard to scowl. He shifts his weight onto his hip, tugs off his hobo gloves and tosses them onto the podium where the guestbook is open and waiting. He really likes their matching jackets, too, and now what'll they do with them?

"I make you a better man," Jon says mock-earnestly, clasping Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan would argue that, except he's pretty sure it's true.

*

Brendon is giggling by the time they figure out that none of their cars are working, and that it'd be tricky lifting any other keys without getting caught.

Spencer thinks it's kind of funny, too. This has Bob stamped all over it.

"You know what we have to do," Brendon says, schooling his face into what he probably thinks is a sober expression, but really just makes him look constipated.

"I really don't," Spencer says, and then Brendon is tugging him back around the corner of the church, towards the front, and Spencer digs his heels in and says, "Oh, no way. Nuh-uh, Brendon. _No_."

Brendon's kind of strong for his size, though, and Spencer's suddenly blinking at the press again, Brendon behind him, hands firm on his shoulders, grinning against the back of his neck.

He sing-songs, "My little pony, my little pony—"

"_Brendon_," Spencer hisses, because there is no way, _no fucking way_ he's escaping on one of the ponies Brendon hired for the day. There are three of them, sorrel and plump and big enough to hold them, really, except Spencer is not using them to run away from their wedding, oh my god.

They have pink and white ribbons in their manes, braided through their tails, and they. They _glitter_ in the sun. They're _prancing_, right there on the sidewalk.

"We're little, we can share one," Brendon murmurs, laughter in his voice. "It'll be sweet."

Spencer can feel his resolve weakening in the wake of Brendon's Mischief Boy tone, the same damn endearing one that'd gotten Spencer to say yes to all this, this _marriage_, in the first place, but he still protests, "We can't."

"Ponies, Spencer Smith," Brendon says, poking his side. "_Ponies_."

Brendon and his fucking weird hoofed animal fetish.

People are yelling at them now, shouting their names, camera flashes are going off, and sooner or later Ryan's gonna hear the commotion and come running out to slaughter them.

"You're so going to pay for this," Spencer mutters.

He takes Brendon's hand, pulls him so they're even in front of the first pony – "Sprinkles," Brendon tells him, practically bouncing out of his shiny dress shoes – and the weird thing is, the really odd or maybe just appropriate thing is that this is all Spencer ever really wanted. Brendon's hand in his, open and unafraid and happy, and the ponies are, like, his concession to Brendon.

If he thinks about it like that, it's not so hard to grab the polished bridle crossing Sprinkles' cheek, to smile over his shoulder and say, "You first."

*

There are rare few moments in Bob's life which he would call defining. Joining My Chem, definitely. That time he almost died - or one of the times, the worst one, because the others he was just really fucking lucky, and he didn't consider luck to be anything special, not living as he did. And letting Ross dress him up in a green crushed velvet suit, while perhaps not remarkably life-changing, is actually a pretty pivotal moment for Bob.

Bob's wearing it for Spencer. Bob agreed to the matching pants for Spencer. Bob's letting himself be photographed and videoed for _Spencer_, because somewhere along the line he's drummed up an unhealthy amount of affection for the kid.

And if Spencer isn't getting married anymore, somebody else better fucking step up to the altar.

"There were ponies," Jon says, biting his lip, hands fisted so low in his pockets his dress shirt's pulled loose of his belt.

"Ponies," Bob echoes. He's doing it as a blatant intimidation attempt, since he could care fucking less if there were ponies. It's Brendon. Bob's just surprised they didn't have horns glued to their heads and, like, fucking sparkly capes.

Jon doesn't seem very intimidated. He lets a laugh slip, even. "They, um, rode off into the sunset?"

Bob can see Frank out of the corner of his eye, palm pressed over his mouth and shoulders shaking in an effort to hold in his fucking manic giggles. Shithead.

"I'm not amused, Walker," Bob says. He'd entered through the front of the church hours before, just like the rest of his band, and he'll be in magazines, newspapers, web sites, he'll be _all over_, and it isn't going to be for nothing, not if Bob had his druthers. Bob's really good at getting his druthers.

Gerard – he matches Gerard, and, okay, that has happened more times in the past than Bob would possibly like, but they're dressed like fucking _lounge singers_, and Gerard is all smiles about it – but Gerard strolls over and drapes an arm across Bob's shoulder and starts humming about fucking rainbows, what the fuck?

"There are two possibilities. Or probabilities," Gerard amends, nodding.

"What?" Bob asks.

"One," Gerard holds up a finger, "Adrian and Ryan break down and sob uncontrollably, and-or start ripping out each other's hair in what will surely go down as the best catfight in history."

Bob thinks on it, and he decides he would be slightly mollified if something like that were to happen. He gives Gerard a go-on gesture.

"Or two," Gerard presses two fingers to the side of his nose, "Adrian and Ryan are sneakier than we thought possible."

He stops, doesn't elaborate, and Frank starts _actually_ giggling, and Bob asks again, "What?"

"They let Brendon have ponies," Gerard says meaningfully.

Bob is usually good at picking up subtleties. He has no fucking clue what Gerard is getting at. "I know that," he says, careful-like, so Gerard knows he's very close to strangling him. "And the only thing I want to hear you say right now is that someone, I don't care who, is getting fucking married."

"I vote for Pete and Patrick," Jon says, rocking back on his heels. He grins at them. "You know. Since Pete and Patrick went ahead and got a license already."

Bob eyes him, making sure he wasn't lying to get Bob to back down, but no. None of Bob's bullshit alarms are going off, and Jon looks really, really smug. "What the hell are we waiting for, then?"

Gerard frowns. "I wanted to marry Frank, though," he says, and Frank's out-and-out _hysterical_ now, face mottled red and eyes leaking and his hands are on his knees, bent over.

Bob can't tell if Gerard is being serious. Bob can always tell when anyone's lying except for Gerard, 'cause Gerard looks fucking angelic most of the time, despite the zombie makeup. So Bob punches Frankie in the stomach, hard, and Frank goes down howling, and he's _still laughing_, the little piss ant, seriously.

"That was kind of uncalled for," Gerard says, but he's smiling again.

"Whatever," Bob growls. "Somebody get the fucking minister."


End file.
